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THE 

LORING MYSTERY 

BY 

JEFFERY FARNOL 

li 



BOSTON 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
1924 











Copyright, 192 If., 

By Jeffery Farnol. 

All rights reserved 
Published September, 1924 


Printed in the United States of America 


flFP 2? 

Cl A800974 



CONTENTS 


Chapter Page 

I Mr. Jasper Shrig Discourses on Capital Coves 

and “the Act”. 1 

II Which Introduces Murder and Sir Nevil Cor¬ 
ing .10 

III Describes How Mr. Shrig Obtained a Clue . 16 

IV Introduces a Very Sorry Hero.29 

V Concerning the Troubles of One Corporal 

Richard Roe of “ The Gun ” Inn ... 37 

VI A Discourse on the Vun and Only .... 43 

VII In Which Our Hero Sets Forth on a Journey 51 

VIII Affordeth a Passing Vision of Our Heroine . 56 

IX Of Peabody, the Poor Person’s Practitioner . 58 

X Recounts How Coring Met Coring .... 66 

XI Further Concerning Him and Her .... 75 

XII Giveth Some Description of a Man with a 

Grievance.79 

XIII Tells how Coring Met Coring for the Second 

Time.90 

XIV Telleth of a Strange Transformation . . . 102 

XV Concerning the Events of a Night . . . . 106 

XVI Tells of a Man With a Harelip . . . . 110 








Contents 


vi 

Chapter 

XVII How Mr. Shrig Talked with a Dead Man 

XVIII Which Describes Certain Happenings at 
Coring Weir Mill. 

XIX Tells of a Gold Button. 

XX Of Ben Bowker and the Man with a Hare¬ 
lip . ' . . 

XXI Tells How Coring Confronted Coring for 
the Third Time. 

XXH Of Suspicion. 

XXIII Describes Polly Feemus, an Heirloom . 

XXIV In Which the Reader Will Find Mention 

of Two Old Friends. 

XXV Some Description of Red Hair and Tears 

XXVI Telleth How and Where David Hid the 
Dagger. 

XXVII Concerning a Tendril of Red-gold Hair 
XXVIII In Which Her Grace Makes a Discovery 

XXIX In Which Ben Bowker Describes the 
Murder. 

XXX Mr. Shrig Demonstrates the Element of 
Surprise. 

XXXI In Which Mr. Maulverer Proffers Advice 

XXXII The People’s Practitioner Philosophises 
on Physic. 

XXXIII Concerning a Ghost that Cimped 

XXXIV In Which Two Felines Flesh their Claws 

XXXV The Duchess Dreams of the Might-have- 
been . 

XXXVI Telleth of a Transformation .... 

XXXVII Concerning the Pertinence of a Brook . 


Page 

114 

121 

128 

134 

138 

141 

145 

159 

164 

172 

177 

187 

197 

203 

213 

218 

227 

232 

242 

246 

253 











Contents vii 

Chapter Page 

XXXVIII Telleth how David Heard the Ghost . 259 

XXXIX Mr. Shrig Makes a Further Diseovery . 267 

XL Concerning Mr. Shrig, his Methods . . 273 

XLI Tells How Mr. Shrig Went Ghost-hunting 277 

XLII How Mr. Shrig was Caught Napping . . 283 

XLIII Which, Having Nothing Whatever to do 
With Mystery or Murder, Should, very 
Properly, be Skipped.289 

XLIV Which Telleth Somewhat of “ Lovers’ Meet¬ 
ings ”.299 

XLV Her Grace Dissertates on Mr. Shrig’s 

Methods.310 

XLVI Of Happiness and Coming Storm . . . 321 

XLVII Which Telleth of Horror and a Great Fear 326 

XLVIII In Which all Doubts are Resolved . . . 338 




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THE LORING MYSTERY 


CHAPTER I 

Me. Jasper Shrig Discourses on Capital Coves 
AND “ THE Act ” 

The clock of St. Clement Danes was chiming the 
hour of eleven as Mr. Gillespie, folding up the brief 
which had engaged his attention all the evening, yawned, 
drained the last of his toddy and rose to betake him¬ 
self to bed; indeed he had just taken up his chamber 
candle and was in the act of extinguishing the cande¬ 
labrum upon the table when he paused and stood star¬ 
ing beneath puckered brows as a sudden knocking 
sounded upon the outer door. 

Eor maybe a full minute Mr. Gillespie stood, his lank 
figure stooped a little forward, eyes fixed, grim lips 
close-set, listening to this soft yet very persistent rap¬ 
ping; then he crossed the cosy room to a bureau in a 
corner and opening a drawer took thence a ponderous 
horse-pistol; thus armed he reached for the candle and 
approached the front door, his age-worn slippers flip¬ 
flapping resolutely over the uneven flooring. 

‘‘ Hullo! ” cried he loudly. “ Who is there ? ” 

Here a hoarse murmur from beyond the stout oak. 

Who is it.f^ ” he demanded. You must speak up! ” 

At this, the voice waxed louder and hoarser; where¬ 
upon Mr. Gillespie, as if reassured, set his unwieldy 
weapon upon the floor and proceeded to draw bolts, 
loose chains, unbar and turn massive key; whereupon 


2 


The Loring Mystery 

the heavy door swung open to discover a shortish, 
thick-set man who beamed and blinked upon Mr. Gilles¬ 
pie from the shadow of a hat extremely shaggy as to 
nap and wide as to brim. 

“You keeps yourself werry partick’ler secure, Mr. 
Gillespie, sir!” said he, touching hat-brim with the knob 
of a stout and remarkably knobby stick. “ Ay, secure 
is the vord, sir, vich ain’t to be vondered at con-sidering 
that you, like me, are a objec’ o’ windictiveness to the 
wicious and per-werted, sir-” 

“Ha, Shrig — confound it all!” exclaimed Mr. Gil¬ 
lespie reproachfully. “What i’ the name o’ reason 
should bring you down on me at this time o’ night ? ” 

“ Business, Mr. Gillespie, sir, — and Capital business 
at that! ” 

“ Capital business, Shrig- ? ” 

“ Vith a capital C, sir.” 

“Ha, d’ye mean — Murder.?” 

“ As ever vas, sir.” 

“ Why then, step in, man, step in and let me fasten 
the door . . . though you might ha’ chosen a better 
time-” 

“Vich, sir, I vould take the liberty to remark, the 
better the deed the better the hour, for this here is a 
murder as should inter-est you uncommon, sir!” 

“ Hum! ” quoth Mr. Gillespie dubiously; and, hav¬ 
ing shot the last bolt, led the way into his small, com¬ 
fortable parlour and motioned his visitor to be seated, 
Mr. Shrig forthwith drew the second elbow-chair to the 
hearth, in doing which he dropped his hat, which gave 
forth a metallic clang. 

“Eh!” exclaimed Mr. Gillespie, starting. “You still 
wear your iron hat, it seems ? ” 

“ Steel, sir! Lined wi’ steel — my own inwention, 
and though a bit ’eavyish pVaps, I’ve found it werry 
good agin’ windictiveness in the form o’ bludgeons, 
brick-bats, and a’ occasional chimbley-pot.” 





On Capital Coves and “the Act” 3 

So saying, Mr. Skrig smoothed his headgear’s shaggy 
nap with caressing elbow and, placing it carefully upon 
the floor beneath his chair together with his knobbed 
stick, sat down, booted legs wide-planted, a hand upon 
each knee, and beamed placidly round the room. 

A powerfully built man was Mr. Shrig, yet an ex¬ 
tremely genial-faced man though of a sober habit of 
dress, who seemed to radiate an obtrusive mildness as he 
sat, albeit he possessed a very bright and roving eye. 

“ You keeps yourself as-tonishing snug, sir,” said he, 
gently rubbing the knees of his cords, “ snug an’ like¬ 
wise werry partick’ler cosy, sir! ” Here his keen glance 
darted from the kettle purring softly on the hob and 
thence flashed to linger upon the empty toddy-glass 
upon the table; observing which Mr. Gillespie reached 
a bottle and another glass from the corner cupboard; 
quoth he: 

‘‘You are partial to lemon-peel, Shrig, I think.? ” 

“Partial indeed, sir, and never more so than vhen 
you do the mixin’ — for, sir, you can brew a toddy as is 
beat by none and ek’alled only by my pal Corporal 
Dick’s Vun and Only, as I think you’ll allow.?” 

“Ay, to be sure,” nodded Mr. Gillespie, bending to 
his fragrant task, “ Corporal Richard Roe hath a nice 
judgment in such matters. How is the Corporal.?” 

“ Hearty, sir, hearty as ever! ” 

“ Taste that! ” said Mr. Gillespie, setting a steaming 
glass before his guest. Mr. Shrig raised the fragrant 
beverage to his lips, sipped it gravely and stared at 
the floor, sipped it again and glanced at the opposite 
wall, sipped it a third time and lifted eyes ecstatic to 
the ceiling: 

“ Ha! ” said he, and the word was a sigh. 

“How is it, Shrig.?” 

“ Sir,” he answered, viewing the glass in his hand 
with respectful avidity, “except for the Corporal’s 
Vun and Only, I’ve sluiced my ivories vith nothing 



4 The Loring Mystery 

novise to ek’al this here since last I occipied this werry 
same arm-chair.” 

“ Ay, and when was that, Shrig? ” 

“ Three veeks ago Toosday, sir, on the matter o’ the 
’eadless lady . . . the mootilated female corp’, sir, the 
young voman as vas diskivered vithout her tibby, her 
napper, or as you might say her ’ead, sir.” 

“ Ay, to be sure! ” nodded Mr. Gillespie, reaching for 
his own glass. “I remember the case . . . you ran 
the murderer down, Shrig.” 

“ Appre-’ended same arter a desprit struggle, a’ 
uncommon wicious cove, sir! And betwixt us, you and 
me, ve had him dooly scragged . . . he ’s a-dangling 
a-top o’ Shooter’s ’Ill at this werry minute, sir, all 
nicely tarred and ironed-” 

‘‘And the heartless ruffian deserved it!” said Mr. 
Gillespie, frowning at the fire. “ Richly deserved it.” 

“Vich desarved it is the vord, sir!” nodded Mr. 
Shrig. “ And to-night, you an’ me a-sittin’ ’ere so nice 
and sociable, ’t is a sweet an’ comforting thought to 
know as ’twas you and me set ’im a-sving on a werry 
’igh gibbet vhere he von’t do nobody no ’arm no more.” 

“ Hum! ” muttered Mr. Gillespie. “ Ha! And what 
brings you here to-night at such an hour, Shrig ” 

“First, sir, I’d like to ax a few questions, if so 
agreeable-” 

“Which I shall answer or not as I think fit. Well, 
Shrig? ” 

“ Werry good, sir. First then, you are lawyer to 
Sir Nevil Loring, Baronet, of Loring Chase, Sussex, 
I think? ” 

“ I am. But how do you know this ? ” 

“Second; you know as this ’ere Sir Nevil is not 
and never vas the rightful heir? ” 

Mr. Gillespie very nearly dropped his glass; there¬ 
fore he set it down carefully and leaned forward to 
stare at Mr. Shrig, who blinked placidly at the fire. 




On Capital Coves and “the Act” 5 

The great wonder is how you should chance to 
leam this! ” 

“ Sir,” continued Mr. Shrig, sipping his toddy with 
the greatest relish, “ I likevise ’appen to know that Sir 
Nevil Loring had a twin brother, Humphrey by name, 
bom ’arf an hour afore ’im and conseqvently the true 
heir. But this here Humphrey vas big and easy o’ 
natur’ and Nevil vas small and remarkable ’ard . . . 
moreover they both loved the same young lady, and she, 
being no fool, chose Humphrey, vereupon Nevil took 
on most ferocious . . . there vas even talk o’ blood¬ 
shed— a dooel. But this vas years and years back. 
Howsomever, Humphrey married the lady, and to awoid 
further battle, murder or sudden death, took ’is share 
o’ the fortun’ an’ emigrated to the Southern States of 
America, leaving Nevil in possession o’ the title and 
estates.” 

“ Ha! ” exclaimed Mr. Gillespie, his sharp eyes keener 
than ever. “ What more, Shrig? ” 

“ V’y, sir, I likevise ’appen to know as Humphrey, 
dying not long ago, an’ none too much money, leaves 
a son David, aged twenty-four. Vich son David, find¬ 
ing out all this ’ere family history, sells what property 
his father has left and takes ship to England werry 
determined to claim his right and dispossess his pa¬ 
ternal uncle Sir Nevil Loring, Baronet, according to 
law* So there stands the case at present, Mr. Gillespie, 
sir. Am I right in my fax, ay or no, sir ? ” 

“ God bless my soul 1 ” ej aculated the lawyer, staring 
at his companion beneath shaggy eyebrows knit in 
frowning perplexity while he rasped at his bony chin 
with longj nervous fingers like one very much at a 
loss. 

‘‘Ah!” murmured Mr. Shrig, nodding benignantly 
at the fire again. “ So my fax is right? Though, to be 
sure, I knowed they vas, sir.” 

Something in the speaker’s placid assurance seemed 


6 The Loring Mystery ' 

to disconcert Mr. Gillespie so very much that he rosej 
and took a turn up and down the room. 'i 
‘‘Damme, Shrig!” he exclaimed at last, “how in| 
the world d’ye know all this — this that hath been a| 
secret buried these many years . . . how? ” ■ 

“First of all, sir,” answered Mr. Shrig, folding hisj 
powerful hands and beaming down at them. “First of; 
all by obserwation, sir, deduction . . . addin’ a bit! 
here, subtractin’ a bit theer and by con-clusions drawed 
according. And secondly, sir, all along of a most ree-i 
markable co-insidence.” 

“ But what should turn your attention to Sir Nevil 
Loring of all people in this teeming world? ” 

Mr. Shrig sipped his glass and smiled dreamily at the 
fire again. 

“ Why, Mr. Gillespie, sir, since you ax me so p’inted 
and since you are a gent as I respex both as lawyer 
and man, and as ’aving been associated in more than one i 
Capital case, and nobody about to peep nor yet to 
pry ... I ’ll tell ye! Sir, I have took, in a quiet way, 
a’ amazin’ power o’ notice of Sir Nevil Loring, Baronet, j 
though ’e don’t know it, ever since I first clapped my ! 
peepers on ’im in these here werry chambers o’ yourn, 
three year ago or thereabouts — stop a bit, I can give ' 
ye the day to a’ hour, I’ve got ’im all dooly wrote down i 
in my little reader.” And from the breast-pocket of his - 
decent, brass-buttoned coat, Mr. Shrig brought forth ■ 
a small notebook and opening it, turned the pages with j 
thumb moistened for the purpose, conning over divers j 
letters and names thus: \ 

“I—J—K—L . . . Lambeth, Lacy, Lowell, Loring 
. . . ay, here ’e is! Loring, Sir Nevil, June twenty- i 
one, eighteen-one-six. Age forty-nine. N.B. Werry ^ 
extra special! There y’are, Mr. Gillespie, eighteen-one- 
six.” 

“ But what’s it all mean, Shrig? I don’t understand. : 
Why your notes? What book is that? ” 



’ On Capital Coves and “the Act” 7 

“Why, sir,” replied Mr. Shrig, thrusting his little 
i book carefully away, “I’ll tell ye. Sir, I’m a law 
! officer as you know — werry good! But, sir, I’m a 
collector likevise — werry good again 1 Sir, some col¬ 
lects picters, and others collects chaney and such-like 
i odds an’ ends, but I collects . . . capital coves and 
; covesses.” 

“ D’you mean — murderers ? ” 

“Ay, I do, sir! I means men an’ vomen as is born 
vith a nat’ral gift for murder . . . and, sir, I collects 
’em afore the fact-” 

“ Good God! ” exclaimed Mr. Gillespie, sitting down 
, again rather suddenly. “ Preposterous, man! Absurd! 
! How can ye- 

“ Sir, I ’ll tell ye! This here vorld is made up o’ 
two sorts o’ people — murder-ers and murder-ees, if 
you’ll allow the vord — werry good! Now v’enever I 
spies a cove vith a face, or as you might say, a chevy, 
as bears all the ewidences o’ your true murderer born, 
down goes the name o’ that cove in my little reader 
wi’ such partic’lers o’ that cove’s life as I can diskiver, 
and I vaits for that person, cove or covess, to commit 
the capital crime. . . . And, sir, I’m werry seldom 
disapp’inted! ... I can smell murder in a capital 
cove, I can hear it in his' woice, taste it in the werry 
air ’e breathes! . . . And, Mr. Gillespie sir,” here Mr. 
Shrig leaned suddenly forward and sank his tones to a 
hoarse whisper, “ if ever I see a true Capital o’ Capitals, 
a downright out an’ outer, ’t is him the vorld has knowed 
so long as — Sir Nevil Loring! ” 

Mr. Gillespie’s keen gaze shifted abruptly from the 
speaker’s placid face to wander vaguely here and there; 
finally it focussed itself upon the dying fire, and he 
shivered suddenly: 

“Pah!” he exclaimed, taking up his glass. “Stuff 
and nonsense! ’T was not to talk such mere folly you 
are here at such an hour? ” 





8 The Loring Mystery 

“ No, sir . . . and now we come to the werry ree- 
markable co-insidence aforementioned. I am here, Mr. 
Gillespie, sir, perfess’onally to report to you, as Sir 
Nevil Loring’s lawyer, the fact that the young gent 
David Loring aforesaid. Sir Nevil Loring’s nevvy, come 
ashore this here werry night! ” 

“ God bless my soul! ” exclaimed Mr. Gillespie, start¬ 
ing. “ Do you mean he is already in London.? ” 

“ Ay, sir, he is.” 

‘‘How — when did he arrive.?” 

“ Sir, the young gent come ashore, somewheres about 
eight o’clock, towing astern o’ Bill Bartrum’s boat or, 
as you might say, wherry. Bill found ’im driftin’ 
Blackfriars vay<*—below bridge.” 

The glass slipped from Mr. Gillespie’s lax fingers 
and rolled across the floor, spilling its contents all 
unheeded: 

“ You—you mean—” he gasped, “you mean-.?” 

“Dead, Mr. Gillespie, a corp’, sir! But ’e ’s nice 
an’ fresh — ain’t been in the vater long, I judge, though 
to be sure ’e’s lost most of his face. Still as I say, 
’e’s nice an’ fresh, sir, and thinking as you might like 
to take a peep at ’im I dropped down on ye, sir, though 
late the hour-” 

“Are you sure — quite sure it is young David 
Loring.? ” 

“The letters and dockiments found on corp’ proves 
i-dentity of same beyond all doubt, sir. And now, if 
you’re minded to run your heye over said corp’ and 
dockiments, I’ve a conweyance a-vaiting.” 

“What kind of night is it, Shrig.?” 

“ Tolerable varmish, sir, though raining.” 

Mr. Gillespie rose, though reluctantly, and taking a 
pair of top-boots from adjacent corner, proceeded to 
get into them. 

“ Aged twenty-four! ” quoth he, deliberately don¬ 
ning his many-caped, high-collared surtout. “ Aged — 




On Capital Coves and “the Act” 9 

only twenty-four! So young and — terribly dead, eh, 
Shrig?” ^ 

“ I never see a deader, sir, no, never in all my-” 

Mr. Shrig stopped suddenly and, in that self-same 
moment, the lawyer, reaching for his hat, let it fall as 
if it had burnt him; and thus they stood staring speech¬ 
lessly upon one another while the place about them 
echoed and re-echoed to a loud and imperious knocking. 

“Lord!” exclaimed Mr. Shrig, stooping swiftly for 
the knobbed stick. “ Loud enough to vake the dead! ” 








CHAPTER n 

Which Introduces Murder and Sir Nevtl Loring 

Candle in hand, Mr. Gillespie led the way to tht; 
front door and, the knocking having momentarily sub-s 
sided, demanded to know who was there, but receivedi 
no better answer than a series of double knocks which* 
seemed louder and more imperious than ever; hereupon.' 
with a backward glance toward the knobbed cudgel oi 
the placid Shrig, Mr. Gillespie forthwith proceeded tc 
loose bar, bolt, and chain; but scarcely had the heavj 
door creaked ajar than, uttering a strangled exclama¬ 
tion^ he recoiled suddenly, but recovering himself im¬ 
mediately, bowed, for, framed in the doorway, backed 
by rain-filled darkness, stood a small, slender gentle¬ 
man, a figure of surpassing elegance from the soles oi 
his gleaming Hessian boots to the crown of his curly- 
brimmed hat. Very still he stood, slim, gloved hands 
crossed upon the gold knob of be-tasselled cane, head; 
bowed and eyes curiously bright and watchful in the 
shadow of his . hat-brim, while in his assured posture, 
his silence, his immutable serenity, was somethingj 
vaguely disconcerting. 

“ Sir Nevil Loring 1 ” exclaimed Mr. Gillespie at last. 

“Myself, man!” he answered, voice pleasingly modu¬ 
lated. “ Though indeed and b’Gad, I might be a ghost, 
judging by your looks 1 ” 

“ This very unexpected visit. Sir Nevil-” 

“ Nay, tush, Gillespie, you forget, I am Sir Nevil nc 
longer, my heritage is passed, or rather passing froir 
me ... I am The Dispossessed, and must be Mr. 






Which Introduces Murder ii 

Loring henceforth. As for my unseasonable call, this 
so untimely visitation, let my approaching destitution 
plead my excuse. I am in town for a few days and 
happening to pass your Inn, I stopped for a word with 
you on my affairs — the approaching cataclysm that 
must shortly overwhelm me. . . . But I find you en¬ 
gaged, I fear.f^ ” 

Sir,” answered Mr. Gillespie with an introductory 
motion of the hand, “ you find me engapd upon your 
affairs with Mr. Shrig here. . . . This, sir, is Mr. 
Jasper Shrig of Bow Street.” 

“Indeed.?” nodded Sir Nevil, favouring the law 
officer with a brief scrutiny. “ Happy to make the ac¬ 
quaintance of Mr. Shrig of Bow Street.” 

“ Servant, sir! ” quoth Mr. Shrig, making a leg and 
beaming down into the eyes that glittered up at him. 
And Mr. Shrig looked into a handsome, strangely youth¬ 
ful face, clear-cut and exquisitely featured, unblemished 
by line or wrinkle, hairless of lip and cheek and framed 
jin lustrous curls of dark-brown hair. 

I “And you were busied upon my affairs, Gillespie.?” 

I “ We were, sir. Pray step in! ” 

S Sir Nevil obeyed; and instantly his youthful shape¬ 
liness, his elegance and dignified repose vanished and 
ihe became a limping, shambling, pitiful creature who 
hobbled, stooped upon liis cane. And as the grace of his 
icarriage was thus utterly marred by his awkward, halt- 
jing gait, so was the classic beauty of his face by the 
ieyes that gleamed and glittered beneath their heavy, 
[veiling lids — lids, these, that rarely opened wide, for 
I Age was there — and many other things, 
i Hobbling to the nearest chair. Sir Nevil sank into 
lit and immediately appeared his unnaturally youthful 
and dominating self. 

“Mr. Jasper Shrig of Bow Street!” he repeated, 
viewing that officer between narrow, languorous-droop¬ 
ing lids. “ The name is not familiar. Pray, Gillespie, 



12 The Loring Mystery 

what have my affairs to do with Mr. Shrig of Bow 
Street ? ” 

*^Sir,” answered Mr. Gillespie, very gravely, “Mr. 
Shrig is here to-night to inform us that Fate decrees you 
are to remain Sir Nevil all your days, for Sir David 
Loring that was — your brother Humphrey’s son — 
is dead.” 

The tasselled cane fell from Sir Nevil’s small, deli¬ 
cately-gloved hand, his smooth chin vanished amid the 
snowy frills at his breast and he remained thus a while, 
motionless and silent; but Mr. Shrig, stooping for the 
cane, saw his eyes very wide open, and, forgetful of the 
cane, drew slowly back and sat rubbing his knees softly 
and gazing placidly at the fire again. 

At last Sir Nevil spoke, his voice soft and musical 
as ever: 

“Dead, Gillespie? Can it be possible — and he so 
young. . . . Dead! I do not pretend to any extrav¬ 
agant grief, never havin,g known the youth . . . but so | 
young, and — dead! When did he die, and where ? ” 

“There are grave suspicions. Sir Nevil, that . . .i 
that the unfortunate young gentleman met his end- 

“ By murder! ” quoth Mr. Shrig, so suddenly thatlj 
Mr. Gillespie started. But Sir Nevil neither stirred 
nor so much as raised his head, and there ensued a I 
silence wherein no one spoke or moved, an uneasyij 
silence as of growing expectancy; only Mr. Shrig’s j 
roving eye flitted from the hearth, across the strip of 
worn drugget to Sir Nevil’s slender, beautifully-shod ; 
foot and hovered there a moment, thence it crept up 
Sir Nevil’s shapely leg, over the elegant lines of froggedd- 
surtout, up snowy shirt-frill, and so at last to thal J 
delicately handsome, strangely youthful face whereir 
two glittering eyes, ages old, watched him serenelj ,1 
beneath their pallid, drooping lids; meeting which look 
Mr. Shrig blinked, coughed faintly behind square- 
tipped fingers and beamed down at his own booted legs i 







Which Introduces Murder 13 

At length Sir Nevil stirred and spoke in his pleasant 
voice: 

“ Murdered? Are you sure? ” 

“ Murdered, sir! ” nodded Mr. Shrig. “ And I vas 
never surer.” 

“Why so, Officer? Pray be more explicit! How 
and where was my unfortunate nephew found?” 

“ In the river 1 ” answered Mr. Shrig, his gaze roving 
to Sir NeviPs boots again. 

“ Ha — drowned ? ” 

“ Throttled 1 ” corrected Mr. Shrig, his glance now 
upon those slim, gloved hands. “ Strangled, sir, choked 
to death! And from ewidences o’ wi’lence upon the 
corp’, throttled by hands twice—ah, four times as big 
as yourn.” Here Mr. Shrig sighed plaintively and 
shaking his head, stared thoughtfully down at his own 
top-boots again. 

“A terrible affair. Sir Nevil!” exclaimed Mr. Gil¬ 
lespie. “ A dreadful, unchancy business ! ” 

I “ And yet,” demurred Sir Nevil, “ what evidence can 
jyou advance, what proofs have you that shall satisfy 
me this unfortunate is indeed my nephew David Lor- 
ing?” 

“Oceans, sir!” answered Mr. Shrig promptly, 
l“Dockiments and letters, sir, a leather vallet stuffed 
full on ’em . . . old letters an’ noo letters and among 
fern vun addressed to your werry own self. Sir Nevil 
Loring, Baronet! Likevise there is — stop a bit!” 
Here Mr. Shrig dived a hand into one of his numerous 
pockets and brought thence a folded paper, which he 
bmoothed out upon his knee, glanced at and carefully 
i’epocketed: “ Likevise sir, a minnytoor of a female in 
la gold frame, a gold vatch bearing on case the monny- 
gram H. L., likevise a gold ring in form of a snake wi’ 
emmyrald eyes, likevise a net-purse vith fifteen guineas 
Qo more and no less and that’s the lot.” 

“ I was about to accompany Mr. Shrig for the pur- 



14 The Loring Mystery 

pose of viewing the body and papers in question,” 
added Mr. Gillespie. 

“ And I Ve a hackney-coach a-vaiting, sirs-” 

“ Then you may discharge it! ” quoth Sir Nevil, 
stooping for his cane. 

“Dis-charge it, sir.?” 

“ I said so, my good man! There is ample room in 
my carriage, for I intend to accompany you.” 

‘‘ Werry good, sir! ” answered Mr. Shrig, rising with 
sudden alacrity. “You speaks, sir, and I obeys!” say¬ 
ing which he departed forthwith; whereupon Mr. Gil¬ 
lespie rose as if to follow, then paused, for Sir Nevil 
still remained seated, his narrowed gaze upon the dying 
embers, as if lost in profound thought. 

“ Gillespie,” he enquired, suddenly, “ is yonder fellow 
in charge of this case?” 

“ Evidently, sir, nor could it be in better hands.” 

“ Ha — do you think so ? ” 

“ I am sure of it. Jasper Shrig is remarkably astute 
though you might not jud,ge as much from his looks. 
He is what I might term a specialist in murder, and, 
to my knowledge, has hunted a great many criminals! 
to the gallows,” 

“Indeed?” murmured Sir Nevil. “Though to be 
sure, I remark in him a gift of observation.” ' 

“ And his methods are highly original . . . absurdly 
so!” 

“Why absurdly, Gillespie?” 

“ He pretends to a gift ... an abnormal instinct 
whereby he can sense murder in a person — before thC' 
fact is committed, which is the most arrant nonsense, 
of course! ” 

“Preposterous!” murmured Sir Nevil. “Yet, m} 
dear Gillespie, abnormality amuses me ... let us re- ; 
join the worthy officer.” Il 

“ At once, if you are ready. Sir Nevil. . . . Will yoi:l| 
take my arm?” 




Which Introduces Murder 15 

‘‘No, no, Gillespie — demme no! Though I am such 
a miserable cripple . . . thanks to good brother 
Humphrey ... I can still contrive to walk unaided, 
I thank you! Pray lead the way, sir.” 




CHAPTER III 

Describes How Mr. Shrig Obtained a Clue 

Mr. Shrig, meanwhile, coming out into the Strand, 
beheld a travelling chariot drawn up before the Inn, a 
luxurious vehicle, its cushioned interior lighted by a 
small lamp in the roof; beyond this princely equipage 
stood a hackney-coach, its driver crouched somnolent 
upon the box despite falling rain; approaching this 
vehicle Mr. Shrig thrust his head in at the open window 
and, peering into the dark interior, spoke in a hoarse 
whisper: 

“ Are ye there, Dan’l ” 

“ Ay, ay, Jarsper! ” 

“ Then — in your listenin’-cheat! ” Instantly a dim 
form leaned forward into whose attentive ear Mr. Shrig 
whispered sibilantly. 

“The shadderin’-lay is it, Jarsper.? Ay, ay! An’ 
’ow long in London — right-o 1 ” 

“ Report to me t’morrer-morning at ‘ The Gun,’ 
Dan’ll” 

“ Ay, ay, J arsper. An’ wheer now ? ” 

“ The ken in Giles’ Rents.” 

Having said which, Mr. Shrig lifted his stick and 
therewith gently tapped the sleepy driver, who chir- 
rupped dismally to his woebegone animal, and the 
hackney-coach lumbered away through the rain, leav¬ 
ing Mr. Shrig staring after it, his lips pursed in a 
soundless whistle, a habit of his when busied upon some 
perplexing problem. 

And yet he is not so lost in thought but that he is 
instantly aware Mr. Gillespie and Sir Nevil age ap- 


Mr. Shrig Obtains a Clue 17 

preaching, and to notice that the baronet is remark- 
ablji agile and moves at a good pace in spite of his ugly 
limp. 

The footman of the chariot has espied them also, for 
down he springs and has the door of the luxurious 
vehicle open, all in a moment. 

‘‘Where to. Officer.?” demanded Sir Nevil, motion¬ 
ing Mr. Gillespie into the carriage. 

“ Why, sir, I ’ll ride outside along o’ your two young 
men and-” 

“ On the contrary, you will ride inside and talk to 
me.” 

“ Werry good, sir! ” Hereupon Mr. Shrig gave the 
coachman all necessary directions and, obeying Sir 
Nevil’s imperious gesture, got in and shut the door. 

“ Officer,” said Sir Nevil as the carriage rolled 
smoothly over the cobbles, “ I understand you spe¬ 
cialise in cases of murder.?” 

“ Vich, sir, I do not go for to deny.” 

“ You are said to be remarkably astute.” 

“As-toot, sir.?” repeated Mr. Shrig, pondering the 
word. 

“You have captured a number of murderers in 
your time?” 

“A tidy few, sir.” 

“ By reason that you are so preternaturally astute! ” 

“ As-toot.? ” repeated Mr. Shrig again, as though a 
little shy of the expression. “ Maybe so, sir, or maybe 
because them as I appre’ended vas n’t.” 

“Ha! D’you mean that murderers are generally 
fools, then.?” 

“Not by no manner o’ means, sir; contrairiwise 
they ’re generally knowing cards and werry downy 
birds, re-markable downy, sir, ah, and the better ed- 
dicated the downier as a gen’ral rule . . . But then 
a murderer is ever and alvays a murderer and that’s 
enough for me.” 



18 The Loring Mystery 

“ How enough? Explain! ” 

“Why, sir,” answered Mr. Shrig, shaking a placid 
head, “this here is vun o’ them theer things as can’t 
no vise be explained. And, because why? Sir, I’ll 
tell yel Because no one can’t explain a nat’ral gift 
or, as you might say, instink. And my gift or instink 
is spotting murderers . . . and the downier the better.” 

Sir Nevil laughed softly and leaned back against 
the deep cushions, his arms outstretched before him, 
his ungloved hands crossed upon the knob of his cane, 
and Mr. Shrig’s glance, happening to rove thither, 
became suddenly fixed. The lamp, to be sure, gave 
but a dim, inconstant light, and yet as he gazed, Mr. 
Shrig became gradually aware that these slender hands, 
curved one above the other, were indefinably strange 
. . . inhuman . . . white claws to rend . . . the talons 
of a bird of prey! Was it in their shape? No ! Their 
size? No! The length of the fingers? No! One 
finger? Yes ! . . . The little finger, white, slender, and 
disproportionately long . . . Ay, that was it! . . . 
And Sir Nevil was speaking: 

“But, unfortunately for you, my astute and gifted 
friend, to convict a man of any crime you must have 
more than mere instinct, you must produce proof 
positive! ” 

Proof!” sighed Mr. Shrig mournfully. “You’ve 
said it, sir. Lord love ye, ’tis proof as is the curse o’ 
my perfession. I can spot you a cove red-’anded from 
the deed. I can appre’end or arrest you that cove,— 
werry good! But unless I can prove to twelve other 
coves as that cove done the deed, that cove can snap 
’is fingers under my breezer and valk off a free man! ” 

“ And very properly! ” retorted Sir Nevil. No one 
is guilty until proved so.” 

“True again, sir! There’s many a guilty cove, as 
ought to be topped an’ gibbeted, a-sluiclng ’is ivories 
wi’ blue-ruin in some boozin’-ken at this werry minute 


Mr. Shrig Obtains a Clue i 9 

and all along o’ proof! Take, for instance, this here 

murder o’ your misfort’nate young newy-” 

Stop 1” exclaimed Sir Nevil. ‘‘Are you so perfectly 
assured, so altogether satisfied and convinced that he 
was indeed murdered? ” 

“ Ay, sir, I am so.” 

“ But why are you so very certain, man ? ” 

“From ewidences o’ wi’lence on the body or, as you 
might say, the cadaver, sir. Murder it vas, most un¬ 
doubted. Conseqvently somevheres in this here city 
o’ London, or parts adjacent thereunto, is the murderer 
as done the deed — or caused it to be done, a-sittin’ 
nice an’ comfortable in social conwerse, p’r’aps. Now 
the question is: ’Ow find that man, and when found 
’ow prove as he done the deed? ” 

“ What of yourself, Mr. Shrig, a man so superla¬ 
tively astute? ” 

“ As-toot,” sighed Mr. Shrig, shaking his head, 
“ as-toot, as-tooter or as-tootest, this here case is goin’ 
to take a powerful deal o’ provin’ . . . and yet . . . 
I dunno!” 

“You think you see your way — so soon?” 

“ ’Ardly that, sir, ’ardly that. Ye see it starts bad, 
for a body desklvered on the scene o’ the crime may 
tell you a lot, but a body found adrift in the river may 
tell you — nothin’ at all.” 

“ It sounds hopelessly perplexing 1 ” 

“Vich it do indeed, sir! But, on the other ’and, 
there’s some corpses as vill tell you things, werry help¬ 
ful things, no matter where you finds ’em. And, sir, 
the corp’ o’ your unfort’nate nevvy is vun.” 

Here a momentary silence and then Mr. Gillespie 
spoke, bis voice unnaturally high: 

“Good God, Shrig! What d’ye mean?” 

“Veil, sir, I told you, I think, as said corp’ ’adn’t 
got much face left to speak on — must ha’ got itself 
jammed between piles or summat, but the jaws is all 



20 


The Loring Mystery 

right and the teeth — werry fine, white teeth, too! 
And between said teeth ... a shred o’ cloth-” 

“Cloth?” exclaimed Mr. Gillespie in the same 
strained tone. “Cloth . . . how . . . what kind?” 

“ Welweteen, sir 1 ” answered Mr. Shrig, peering 
from the window. “ Now show me a cove in a torn 
welweteen jacket, a tall, strong man wi’ werry large 
’ands, and I’ll show you the cove as ackcherlly done 
the deed!” 

“And in London,” sighed Sir Nevil, “in this vast 
city of London are tens of thousands of men in velveteen 
jackets and doubtless many of these jackets torn!” 

“ An’ here,” said Mr. Shrig, still peering out of the 
window, “ here I must ax you to get down, or as you 
might say, a-light, sirs.” 

“Are we there? ” demanded Sir Nevil. 

“ No, sir, but pretty near.” 

“ Then why get down here? ” 

“ Because we are vithin easy valkin’ distance, sir.” 

“But why not drive on, man?” 

“Because sir, these alleys is too narrer for anythin’ 
bigger than a barrer! ” So saying, Mr. Shrig pulled 
the check-string, whereupon the carriage stopped and 
the door was opened by a damp but deferential footman. 

They descended into mud and a rain-filled gloom 
rendered more apparent by miserable oil lamps that, 
flickering dismally here and there, showed glimpses of 
a squalid street and a narrow alley into whose noisome 
dark Mr. Shrig led the way, his broad-brimmed hat 
drawn low upon his brow, the knobbed stick grasped 
in ready hand. 

“ Qvick’s the vord, sirs! ” quoth he, in hoarse 
whisper. “ This ain’t eggsackly an ’ealthy country for 
me — or you, sirs, so step lively and keep close ! ” 

He led them through fetid passages between clammy 
walls, across pestiferous courts where the feet slipped 
and sank into loathsome mud, festering plots shut in 



Mr. Shrig Obtains a Clue 2i 

by miserable tenements — vile dens and hovels seldom 
visited by the cleanly sun — where Crime was bred and 
Vice born to languish wretchedly awhile and die; where 
Decency was not known and Shame fled appalled while 
Ignorance and Hunger stalked hand in hand. 

Late though the hour yet the close air about them 
seemed full of the vague stir of teeming misery, a 
hushed, indefinable blur of sound pierced, ever and 
anon, by the desolate wail of a sleepless child ... a 
discord of fierce voices . . . And sounds there were 
yet more evil. 

At length these narrow labyrinthine ways opened 
out, in their nostrils breathed a sweeter, cleaner air 
and, turning a sudden corner they saw through the 
falling rain a shapeless, low-pitched building with a 
small window whence beamed a ray of light and beyond 
this a mist that was the river. 

“ Here we are, sirs! ” said Mr. Shrig, pointing with 
his stick. “Yonder’s th’ office an’ Joe’s light, and in 
the little shed beyond lays — It! The corp’. Sir Nevil! 
The body o’ your unfort’nate young nevvy! Mind 
your feet, sir! Tak’ my arm, it’s a bit awk’ard going 
’ereabouts-” 

“And a damnably dreary hole into the bargain!” 
added Mr. Gillespie. 

“ Dreary, sir.? ” demurred Mr. Shrig. “ Why I ’ll 
agree as it ain’t eggsackly a cheery place of a rainy 
night, but — dreary.? ’T is aU in the p’int o’ view, sir. 
I ’ve sat ’ere frequent of a summer’s h’eve vatching the 
sunset an’ puffin’ my steamer merry as a grig! ” 

By this time they had reached the building and, 
opening a door, Mr. Shrig ushered them into a small, 
very neat room, where, perched at a desk on a high 
stool was a man writing busily, who, like the room, 
was himself very small and very neat; perceiving the 
strangers he laid down his quill and glanced up en¬ 
quiringly. 



22 


The Loring Mystery 

‘‘Veil, Joe, how goes it? ” quoth Mr. Shrig. 

“Fair to middlin’, Jarsper,” answered the small man 
in small, thin, wailing tones, “ fair to middlin’ except 
for me lumbager — deary me! Wot can I do for these 
gents? Is it the young ’ooman as vas towed ashore 
yesterday arternoon, Jarsper, because if it is-” 

“No, it ain’t her, Joe, it’s Number Two-’undred 
and Vun.” 

“ V’y that’s ’im as come in this evenin’ ! ” 

“The werry same i-dentical, Joe! I vants to show 
these here gentlemen the ewidences o’ i-dentification 
found on its pusson, Joe.” 

“O deary me!” wailed Joe, clambering down from 
his perch. “Werry good, Jarsper. My lumbager 
ketches me oncommon sharp when the weather’s 
dampish . . . deary O Lor’! Here’s the keys, Jarsper.” 

Keys in hand, Mr. Shrig crossed to a shallow cup¬ 
board that took up one side of the room and, opening 
the doors, disclosed to view long rows upon rows of 
pigeon-holes each bearing a number and each more or 
less filled with a heterogeneous collection of oddments; 
and though to be sure the majority of these articles 
seemed poor and tawdry, yet here and there among 
the jumble precious stones sparkled; also there was 
about these multifarious objects, so diverse in them¬ 
selves, a wistful air, yet also something indefinably 
sordid and grim, insomuch that Sir Nevil, limping 
nearer, leaned to view them curiously through his 
quizzing-glass. 

“These here, sir,” explained Mr. Shrig, “is all objex 
found upon corpses as nobody ever troubled to claim. 
A rum lot, sir—^precious few on ’em of any great 
walue . . . y’see, wallybles has a manner o’ wanishing 
from corpses, and vich ain’t to be vondered at I 
suppose, seeing as burning natur’ is burning natur’! 
Though ’ere’s a pearl brooch an’ gold vedding-ring 
. . . Number eighty-four! Ay, to be sure, she vas a 



Mr. Shrig Obtains a Clue 23 

lady . . . silk stockin’s! But here’s our partick’ler 
articles . . . Number Vun, a leather vallet wi’ dock- 
iments, warious. Number Two, a minnytoor of young 
voman in gold frame! Number Three, a gold vatch 
vith monnygram H. L. (a vonder it didn’t wanishi). 
Number Four, a gold finger-ring (ditto). Number 
Five, a net purse containing fifteen guineas, no more 
and no less (ditto again!). And there y’are, sir!” 

“To be sure, Gillespie, I know this ring!” sighed 
Sir Nevil. “I saw it gleam upon that brotherly hand 
which crippled me for life! . . . And this miniature? 
Ay, begad, she was a glorious creature in those days! 
You remember her, Gillespie? . . . Worth fighting 
for — eh? And I . . . lost her! Ah well, well — 
’twas years ago! And now the wallet . . . these 
letters? Ay, ’tis dear brother Humphrey’s untidy 
caligraphy! . . . Officer, a chair, pray! I must read 
’em — every word.” 

Seated at a small table. Sir Nevil watched Mr. Shrig 
open the wallet in question and extract its contents, 
damp from their late immersion yet still legible. 

“There’s dockiments warious,” quoth Shrig, hand¬ 
ling the papers with tenderest solicitude. “ First 
exhibit, a marriage licence. Second ditto, a birth stiffi- 
cate. Third, a letter addressed to Captain the Hon¬ 
ourable John Cholmondeley, R. N. — vich I places back 
in the vallet. Fourth — a letter addressed to Her 
Grace the Duchess o’ Camberhurst — vich I likevise 
places back in said vallet. Fifth, a letter addressed to 
Sir Nevil Loring, Bart., vich I dooly ’ands to you, sir 
— an’ there y’are! ” 

Sir Nevil perused letters and documents with minut¬ 
est care, passing each in turn to Mr. Gillespie for that 
gentleman’s inspection, while Mr. Shrig, watchful of 
eye, conversed in hoarse whispers with the plaintive 
Joe. 

“Egad, Gillespie,” exclaimed Sir Nevil, his reading 


24 The Loring Mystery 

done, ’t is all here! These papers establish nephew 
David’s identity beyond all cavil . . . armed with 
these he might have taken possession of Loring Chase 
and I — ah, well . . . Fate hath decreed otherwise, it 
seems! ” 

“And now, sirs,” said Mr. Shrig, having coimted 
and returned the papers to the wallet, “p’r’aps you 
von’t care to take a peep at — It?” 

“You mean?” 

“The corp’, sir.” 

“Assuredly!” answered Sir Nevil, rising. 

Hereupon Mr. Shrig, having returned the wallet to 
its particular pigeon-hole and relocked the cupboard, 
took a lantern from a niche provided for it in an angle 
of the wall, lighted it at the fire, reached a ponderous 
key whence it dangled upon an especial hook and open¬ 
ing a small back-door peered out into a darkness full 
of the dismal sound of falling rain. 

“Dampish, sirs, dampish!” said he. “But then It’s 
a-layin’ nice and ’andy — foller me.” 

So they follow him across an unevenly pa: ed yard 
and halt where he halts before a small, deso’ te struc¬ 
ture rendered more dreary by reason of t r ceaseless 
dripping of the rain. Here Mr. Shrig l .ems to find 
some difficulty with the lock, but the key turns at last, 
the door opens, wailing dismally, and they step into a 
gloomy place, damply chill, whose roof and walls, per¬ 
vious to the elements, admit cold airs that sigh and moan 
through chink and crevice, insomuch that Mr. Gillespie 
instinctively gathers his great-coat closer about him. 

“Ay, ’tis a bit draughty-like, sir!” Mr. Shrig ad¬ 
mitted; “but then, d’ye see, them as lays here don’t 
mind it . . . because v’y? Because they’re beyond 
mindin’ anything — vich is summat arter all if ye come 
to think on it. We’ve only vun here at present, but 
that vun is The Vun — It! And theer It lays — yon¬ 
der!” And lifting the lantern, Mr. Shrig pointed to 


Mr. Shrig Obtains a Clue 25 

a long, shapeless object mounted upon rough trestles 
and draped with discoloured sacking. 

Now as they stared on this grim and formless thing, 
the shroud which veiled it stirred sluggishly in some 
current of air much as if invisible fingers were slyly, 
furtively plucking at it. Lantern in hand, Mr. Shrig 
crossed the uneven floor and, making as if to turn back 
the rough shroud, paused. 

‘‘Sirs,” said he, “this here may ha’ been a nice- 
lookin’ young gent once, but ’e ain’t ’ardly vot you’d 
go for to call pretty now-” 

“Is murder ever pretty?” retorted Sir Nevil. 
“ Come, why do you hesitate.?' My nerves are steady.” 

With slow, almost reverent gesture Mr. Shrig turned 
down the sacking; and beholding the mangled horror 
beneath, Mr. Gillespie shrank. 

“ Horrible — horrible! ” he gasped. “ Cover it up 
again — cover it in God’s name! ” And turning his 
back he retreated to the door and leaned there. 

Not so Sir Nevil; here was no shrinking of that 
slight, elegant form, no change in these classically 
beautiful features, no quiver of shapely lip or nostril, 
no flicker of curling lash, no creeping pallor on this 
smooth, so strangely youthful cheek. For a long mo¬ 
ment he gazed serenely down at this dead and mutilated 
thing, then — with movement altogether sudden and 
unexpected — stripped it of dingy covering until it lay 
exposed, from sodden, discoloured shirt-frill to up- 
pointing, sodden boots. 

“Lord . . . sir!” exclaimed Mr. Shrig, his usual 
placidity quite gone. “ Lord love me-” Here, no¬ 

ticing the direction of Sir Nevil’s keen gaze, he looked 
thither also ... A clenched hand! A strong and 
shapely hand that, despite bruises and abrasions, seemed 
to have been well cared for in life; but now these white 
fingers with their carefully tended nails were fast shut 
in the iron rigor of death. 



26 


The Loring Mystery 

“Poor . . . youth! ” said Sir Nevil at last. “Never 
having known him in life I could not love him . . . 
But now ... in death . . . poor youth! ” 

“ Ah 1 ” nodded Mr. Shrig, covering the pitiful thing 
from sight. “ Poor, misfort’nate young gent. But 

talkin’ o’-” 

“ His burial shall be my care.” 

“ Werry proper, sir, seeing as It is your nevvy 1 But 

talkin’ o’ nerves, sir-” 

“ When can he be removed ? ” 

“ Arter the inkvest, sir. And speakin’ o’-” 

“ When will that be.? ” 

“ Pretty soon, I reckon, sir. And as for nerves, I 
don’t believe as you’ve got nary a vun, sir.” 

“ I am not easily affected.” 

“ And no error, sir I ” nodded Mr. Shrig, as he ush¬ 
ered them out into the rain and so back to the neat 
room where the neat but doleful Joe sat crouched to 
his writing. Here, having extinguished the lantern 
and restored it to its neat shelf, Mr. Shrig buttoned up 
his coat, nodded to Joe and forthwith piloted his vis¬ 
itors back the way they had come. 

Reaching the squalid street without molestation, 
Mr. Shrig stood to watch the gentlemen into the car¬ 
riage whence Sir Nevil leaned suddenly to look down 
at Mr. Shrig in narrow-eyed scrutiny: 

“You mentioned a shred of velveteen, I think? ” 

“ Ay — what of it, sir ? ” 

“ I did not see it.” 

“ It ’ll be perjooced at the inkvest, sir.” 

“And in the meanwhile you will devote all your en¬ 
ergies and astuteness to the matter, I trust? ” 

“ Sich being my dooty, sir.” 

“Have you arrived at any conclusion—formulated 
any theory to work upon ? ” 

“ Oceans, sir 1 Lord, I’ve got plenty o’ theories I 
It’s proving ’em as is my trouble. Proof, sir,” sighed 





Mr. Shrig Obtains a Clue 27 

Mr. Shrig, shaking doleful head, “ proof is a owdacious 
tough customer ’owever you tackles ’im an’ never more 
so than in this ’ere case o’ your misfort’nate nevvy.” 

“ But surely you do not despair so soon, Mr. Shrig 
of Bow Street?” 

“ Vich, sir, I’d take leave to remind you as Jarsper 
Shrig is only a burning being after all! But then, sir, 
on the other ’and, ’ope, sir . . . capital H-O-P-E — 
’ope, springs eternal in the burning breast. And con- 
seqvently, sir, though Proof has gravelled me constant 
so far, I ain’t throwed up the sponge yet, not by no 
i manner o’ means.” 

I “ I rejoice to hear it,” answered Sir Nevil, his shapely 
I mouth curving to a singularly winning smile, ‘‘ and 
! for your further encouragement — mark this! Find 
: out the murderer of my nephew David Loring, prove 
I his guilt before the world, and that same hour I pay 
i you the sum of five hundred pounds . . . Good night! ” 

! Up went the window, the coachman cracked his whip and 
I the ponderous travelling-chariot rolled smoothly away, 
j Mr. Shrig, standing to watch the carriage out of 
I sight, took off his hat, wholly oblivious of the rain, and 
I ran brawny fingers through his grizzled hair, his clean- 
I shaven lips pursed in their soundless whistle. Then, 

I clapping hat firmly upon his head, he took fresh grasp 
of his knotted stick and set off at sudden speed, has¬ 
tening back through noisome court and narrow alley, 
his keen gaze now searching the gloom under foot, now 
the rain-filled darkness overhead, as one who sought in 
earth and heaven the answer to some enthralling enigma. 

Reaching the neat office he nodded to Joe, relighted 
the lantern, took down massive key and, once more 
traversing the narrow yard, reopened creaking door 
and, key in fist, approached that still and awful shape. 

Setting down the lantern he threw aside the sacking 
and, getting upon his knees, fell to work upon those 
locked fingers, using the key as a lever. 


28 The Loring Mystery 

But the dead holds fast, and Mr. Shrig’s forehead 
is damp ere he succeeds, and from the grasp of those 
stiffly clenched fingers wrests a small object that gleams 
in the light of the lantern; and small though it is, this 
object seems to fascinate Mr. Shrig, for he is still upon 
his knees staring at it gleaming upon his open palm 
when he is roused by the entrance of the plaintive Joe, 
who wails a perfunctory question: 

“Wot now, Jarsper? O deary me, O Lor’! Fresh 
ewidence? ” 

“ Ah! ” nodded Mr. Shrig, “ of a sort I ” 

“ Well, Lor’ lumme, it’s daylight an’ time my ‘ relief ’ 
was ’ere to tak’ over . . . Bob Denny, and ’e ain’t 
come yet and me lumbager so bad an’ all, O deary 
me-” 

“ Daylight is it, Joe? Then I ’ll be toddling.” 

“Werry good, Jarsper. And if you should meet me 
‘ relief ’, ’urry ’im up, will ye . . . an’ me wi’ me lum¬ 
bager ... so if you meet ’im, ’urry ’im up, dammim! ” 

The rain had ceased when Mr. Shrig stepped forth 
beneath a sky flushing to the dawn, whose ever-growing 
radiance slowly turned the sullen waters of the river 
to a waxing glory; and yet it could scarcely be this 
had set the glow upon Mr. Shrig’s grim cheek, or the 
light in his keen eyes as he stood peering down thought¬ 
fully at these rippling waters. 

“ Ah,” quoth Mr. Shrig at last in murmurous apos¬ 
trophe, “ you know a precious lot, you do I You knows 
the How and the V’y and the V’ere of it all, you do! 
And v’at do I know now? Werry little! And yet, 
if I was to write it down I should spell H-O-P-E, ’ope 
vith a werry large capital H indeed! ” 

Having delivered himself of which, Mr. Shrig went 
his thoughtful way beside the river, his hands gripping 
the knobbed stick behind him, his head bowed and his 
lips pursed in their soundless whistle. 



CHAPTER IV 

Intkoduces a Very Sorry Hero 

. . . Darkness and pain ... a sense of growing 
helplessness and misery ... a sick terror of past 
things! And yet he must remember . . . that was it 
— to remember — if the pain would only suffer him to 
think . . . What did he remember? . . . Drinking 
farewell with a vague someone who had been his friend 
. . . yes, one who had sought his acquaintance on the 
ship. Ah, to be sure he had voyaged on a ship! . . . 
He remembered also the drowsiness, the inexplicable 
heaviness that had crept upon him, numbing his facul¬ 
ties, robbing him of strength until he sank down and 
down into a black horror . . . nightmare . . . wherein 
he lay impotent yet dimly conscious of evil all about 
him . . . vague and awful terrors . . . He remembered 
a whirl of struggling forms ... a scream suddenly 
and awfully hushed and thereafter a dreadful, shatter¬ 
ing crash . . . silence and nothingness — stay! He 
recalled a sudden shock of icy water that waked him 
to passionate effort, a desperate struggling in the dark 
. . . mud . . . slimy timbers, an upward clambering 
sucked at by hungry waters . . . rats, they were all 
about him still, watching him bright-eyed from dingy 
nooks and corners . . . But who he was, and where, 
and who the friend had drunk with him — these were 
things beyond his memory, strive how he might . , . 
And his head was bursting! And the rats were every¬ 
where . . . they were coming nearer! Well, there were 
horrors worse than rats ... If he could only remem¬ 
ber! His name, for instance — what was his name? 


30 The Loring Mystery 

Who was he? ... If only the throbbing in his head 
would abate a little then he might find an answer to 
these terrifying questions . . . Who? What? Where? 
Why? ... Or perchance this was death; if so it was 
more awful than he had dreamed. . . . 

Something touched him and a voice spoke, question¬ 
ing: 

“Wot ails ye, Jack?” 

So his name was Jack, then! . . . And yet it had 
an unfamiliar sound — 

“Wot’s y’r trouble. Jack? ” 

Hereupon, exerting his will, he opened his eyes and 
beheld a dim form looming over him. 

“I am — hurt, I think . . . very sick, and my head 
is split open ... I cannot remember who, or what, or 
where . . .” 

“ Sound lushy to me, ye do! Let’s ’ave a look at 
ye!” 

Heavy footsteps that crossed the floor, the creak of 
a shutter, a light that blinded him. 

“ Ay, I thought as much! ” growled the voice. 
“And a pretty objeck y’are! Out of this, ye lousy 
dog! ” 

A foot that spurned him even more fiercely until, 
once more calling upon his will, he contrived to get 
upon unsteady legs and totter out into the new day. 

Haphazard he went, stumbling now and then, and 
often stopping to clasp throbbing temples. 

So his name was Jack! . . . And yet ... it seemed 
he had answered to another name once . . . and in a 
different world . . . And there had been a ship in 
it . . . and one who was his friend, a very merry fel¬ 
low . . . And there had been a dinner . . . lights and 
wine . . . plenty of it . . . drowsiness . . . sickness 
and an engulfing darkness and in this darkness a grow¬ 
ing mist . . . and then — faces . . . yes, a blur of 
faces dominated by one that flashed upon his vision 


A Very Sorry Hero 31 

. . . grew suddenly large . . . loomed gigantic . . . 
grew suddenly small and smaller ... to a pin 
point — vanished. And now his name was Jack! . . . 
And yet ... if he could but remember — something 
. . . something 1 . . . there had been a shock — a 
thunderous crash that had shivered the universe about 
him 1 . . . And before this was the ship . . . and after 
the ship — darkness and horrible visions . . . And 
now? Now, before him was a shimmering gleam that 
looked like water . . . and he was faint, he must rest 
awhile . . , sick, he must lie down awhile, perhaps then 
the horror in his head would pass, the pain abate and 
allow him to think and thinking — to remember. 

He was sitting, miserably huddled, his head between 
clasping hands again, his haggard eyes now upon the 
rotting planks of the causeway under foot, now upon 
those stealthy waters beyond, now uplift to the far 
distant heaven glorious with dawn. . . . 

Who? What? Where? Why? 

Desperately he strove to find answers to these haunt¬ 
ing questions, to order the wild chaos of his thoughts, 
to force his memory back — back beyond that stu¬ 
pendous, reverberating crash that had so annihilated 
his world, snapped the link between past and present. 

Thus crouched he, a windless dawn about him, an 
awesome quietude broken only by the murmurous ripple 
of the flowing tide, a sound very pleasant and soothing 
at first, yet which gradually changed to something 
persistent and worrying ... a querulous voice — 
questioning . . . questioning “ Who was he? What 
was he? Where and how and why? ” 

Now after some while as he hearkened to this voice, 
so small yet imperious, so soft yet insistent, he became 
aware of approaching footsteps — slow, dragging foot¬ 
steps—^and, glancing up wearily, espied a man who 
walked beside the river chin on breast as one in thought, 
a shortish, powerfully built person whose shaven lips 


32 The Loring Mystery 

were pursed in a soundless whistle; a placid philosopher 
in top-boots pondering the mutability of human affairs, 
or a poet, with knobbed stick beneath his arm, seeking 
inspiration for an ode to “ Morning ”; howbeit, a very 
thoughtful person so lost in self-communion as to ap¬ 
pear unconscious of his surroundings and wholly un¬ 
aware of the two formidable shapes that dogged him, 
creeping ever nearer upon his heels, ragged, fierce-eyed 
creatures whose every look and gesture was a menace. 

Well, to be sure, this placid dreamer must be warned. 
To the which end our solitary watcher strove to rise, 
but made such a labour of it, what with blinding pain 
and trembling limbs, that it seemed he was too 
late ... A sudden, stealthy rush, a wild-beast leap 
and the two had reached their victim. . . . The whirl 
of a murderous bludgeon . . . and caught by that 
coward stroke, the philosopher threw out his arms, 
staggered and fell. But our solitary was upon his feet 
at last and stumbling to the rescue, crying he knew 
not what; whereupon the two, crouching above their 
prey, snarled a fierce answer, like the wild beasts they 
were, and turned at bay, yellow fangs a-gleam, but — 
beholding what fashion of thing their assailant was, 
they uttered a yelp, a howl, and made off without 
staying the onset. 

Left thus master of the situation, our solitary stood 
swaying a little, staring down at the prostrate man 
who presently stirred, sneezed, and raising himself to 
a sitting posture, removed his crumpled hat from his 
head with a vigorous jerk and sat up to survey the 
ominous dent in its shaggy crown with an air of grave 
yet placid interest. 

‘‘A werry determinated effort!” he remarked at 
last, ‘‘ a dent as would hold my fist — but an ’ammer 
will put that right! But Lord, it must ha’ took a 
amazin’ amount o’ windictiveness to make a dent like 
this here in a castor lined wi’ steel . . . vich is a 


A Very Sorry Hero 33 

inwention o’ my own agin’ such — Lord! . , . Lord 
love my eyes 1 ” he broke off as, glancing up, he be¬ 
held the face and form of his dehverer. 

“Are you . . . much hurt?” enquired this person 
in strangely halting, muffled tones. 

“ ’Urt — no . . . but-” exclaimed Mr. Shrig 

scrambling nimbly to his feet, “Lord — vot’s wrong 
wi’ you ? ” 

“Much!” answered the other, faintly. “Every¬ 
thing! I . . . cannot think ... I cannot remember, 
I — am sick! ” 

“And no error!” nodded Mr. Shrig. “But vot’s 
wrong wi’ you ? ” 

“I don’t know-” 

“You — by Goles, you look like a walking stiff — a 
‘ found drowned ’ — a corp’ as has jest crawled out of its 
grave — ah, an’ a precious muddy grave at that! ” 

“I feel . . . like one . . . dead-” 

“ Here, take a peep at yourself! ” And from one of 
his numerous pockets Mr. Shrig drew a small circular 
mirror, polished it on coat-cuff and gave it into the 
other’s shaking fingers. 

“You don’t think I ... am dead ... do you? 
... I feel . . . very dead.” 

“You look more like a case o’ Windictiveness with 
a capital Wee! Lord, Windictiveness seems oncommon 
busy this morning. . . . Who are ye, pal — vot’s 
your monicker — your name? ” 

“I . . . don’t know-” 

“Eh — don’t know?” 

“I can’t remember . . . the man called me 
‘Jack’ ...” 

“ Jack what ? ” 

“Only Jack — but ... he was wrong ... I don’t 
think I have a name ... I can’t think or . . . re¬ 
member.” 

“Veil then, take a peep at your chevy, pal,” said 






34 The Loring Mystery 

Mr. Shrig, extending the small mirror. The Nameless 
One obeyed and saw a reflection of eyes that glared 
from a mask of mire and blood, a flaccid mouth, parted 
lips that showed a gleam of strong, white teeth. 

“ I look . . . very dead . . . don’t I” 

“You’ve been in the river!” quoth Mr. Shrig, 
pocketing the mirror and viewing the dreadful shape 
before him with keen and speculative eyes. “ In the 
river, pal, and — not so long ago, either I ” 

“The river? . . . Yes — it must have been the 
river, I guess! ” 

“ And how did ye come in the river, pal? ” 

“I . . . don’t know, I — can’t remember . . . My 
head burst open when the crash came and I . . . 
haven’t been able to think since . . . my head 
burst . . .” 

“Burst, pal? D’ye mean a crack o’ the nob? 
Love me, but here’s blood enough! Stoop down and 
lemme take a peep . . . What, are ye faint, pal? 
Hold up, lad — so! Easy does it — sit ye down. Now, 
let’s ’ave a look — keep still! Ay, here ’s Windictive- 
ness wrote werry big!” 

“ Can you see . . . my brains ? ” 

“No, no, it ain’t so bad as that, pal, though I’ll 
allow it ain’t pretty. Who’s been and give you this 
here almighty perishing crack?” 

“ I don’t know . . .” 

“Howsomever, you saved my life, or good as, from 
them two — Creepin’ Sam and Soldier Ben, they 
vas, I twigged ’em as I lay — and I’m grateful, pal, 
grateful. Gratitood is vun o’ the strongest p’ints o’ my 
character. Can you valk?” 

“ No!” 

“ An’ small vonder! ” 

“Oh ... I think ... I’m dying . . .” 

“Not you, pal, not you-” But here, as if to 

prove his words, the Nameless One sagged back across 



A Very Sorry Hero 35 

Mr. Shrig’s supporting arm, with head swung loosely 
back at horrid angle; whereupon Mr. Shrig laid him 
gently down and glanced round about him helplessly. 

‘‘ Here’s an almighty rum go ! ” he exclaimed to the 
circumambient air; then, catching up his battered hat, 
he hasted to fill it from the river and whipping off his 
belcher neckerchief, fell upon his knees and began to 
bathe the blood and grime from the sufferer’s face and 
hair. 

A young, handsome face with regular features deli¬ 
cately moulded but ghastly in its pallor and the gleam 
of uproUed eyes beneath their long, drooping lashes. 

“Now this,” quoth Mr. Shrig, “this is a reg’lar 

almighty perishing everlasting rum-” here he 

checked both word and breath together, for by chance 
his roving gaze had lighted upon the sufferer’s hand, 
which seemed to possess some strange and potent 
fascination for Mr. Shrig, whose eyes grew very round, 
while his lips slowly pursed themselves in their sound¬ 
less whistle. Presently, however, he roused himself, 
and drawing a flask from some recess of his bulky 
clothes, he unscrewed the cap and endeavoured to force 
some of the spirit between these white, fast-clenched 
teeth; in the which act he was conscious of heavy foot¬ 
falls, and glancing up, espied a bony man approaching 
whom he hailed forthwith by the name of Bob. 

“Wot’s the racket, Jarsper.?” enquired the bony 
Bob approaching. “’Oo ’ave ye got this time? My 
eye, you’ve been a-layin’ into ’im proper by ’is looks! 
Ain’t killed ’im, ’ave ye? ” 

“ Stow y’r chaffer. Bob, an’ gi’e’s a hand wi’ this 
unfort’nate pal o’ mine.” 

“Pal o’yourn, Jarsper?” 

“ Ay! Ketch ’olt of ’is stampers — and easy does it! ” 

“ Why, I’m in a ’urry, Jarsper . . . got to take over 
from Joe and I’m late a’ready! I’ll tell Joe to roll 
along wi’ the barrer-” 




36 The Loring Mystery 

“You’ll ’elp me get my pal into an ’ackney-coach 
this werry minute-” 

“ It’s a coffin ’e wants — by ’is looks ! And wheer 
will us find a ’ackney-coach at this time in the mornin’ ? ” 

“I knows where, Bob! Now do you ’elp me or must 
I per-suade ye to do it vith my baster ? ” And Mr. 
Shrig caught up his knobbed stick. 

“Looks as if ’e’d ’opped the twig for good an’ all, 
Jarsper, but if ’e’s your pal-” 

“ ’E is 1 ” nodded Mr. Shrig with unwonted vehe¬ 
mence. “ Ah, an’ vot’s more . . . never you mind. 
Now, up vith him . . . easy does it! And tread gentle, 
Bob, gentle and both together. Bob.” 



CHAPTER V 


Concerning the Troubles oe One Corporal 
Richard Roe of “The Gun’^ Inn 

A FORTNIGHT has elapsed and Corporal Richard Roe, 
sitting in the snug bar-parlour of that small and cosy 
tavern known as “The Gun”, and situated in Gray’s 
Inn Lane, lifted the shining hook which replaced his 
left hand to stroke the tuft of neatly trimmed whisker 
which adorned that side of his comely, good-natured 
face, what time he gazed apprehensively at the rows of 
figures whose ragged columns straggled over the sheet 
of paper before him. For Corporal Richard was about 
to cast up his weekly accounts, a desperate and labo¬ 
rious business entailing an infinitude of painful mental 
stress, time, ink and paper. 

Thus the Corporal eyed the accounts before him with 
looks of mingled trepidation and abhorrence; but, duty 
being duty, he groaned, squared mighty shoulders and 
grasping quill pen, much as if it had been a weapon of 
offence, resolutely set to work, adding the items before 
him aloud, thus: 

“A farden, two ha’pennies and four fardens is a 
farden — and carry tuppence. And tuppence and 
tenpence-farden is ought pence, a farden — and carry 
a shilling. And nineteen shillings and sixpence comes to 
ought shillings, one pound, sixpence and a farden. Halt 
— stand easy!” Here was silence while the Corporal 
duly set down the total thus arrived at, dropped a blot, 
smeared it with his finger, sighed dismally and continued: 

“ Ought shillings, one pound, sixpence and a farden 
added to thirteen pound, three shillings and five pence 


38 The Loring Mystery 

three fardens come to — ay, that’s the question — 
what ? ” 

The Corporal groaned, took a fresh dip of ink, 
dropped another blot, smeared it over with his little 
finger, drew a deep breath, and continued: 

“As you were! Three fardens and a farden is four 
fardens — a penny, and a penny and fivepence is six¬ 
pence, and sixpence and sixpence is another shilling, 
and a shilling to three shillings is four, and four to 
ought shillings is still four shillings-” 

From the narrow doorway at the Corporal’s elbow a 
head suddenly protruded, a close-cropped head swathed 
about in white bandages. 

“Can I help you, Corporal Dick?” 

The voice was soft and almost timid in its pleading, 
yet the Corporal instantly dropped another blot, sighed 
at it, shook his comely head at it, smeared it with his 
finger and lifting his kindly blue eyes towards the 
speaker, nodded. 

“Lord, Jack, you’re alius a-helping of me — pewter 
and glass, comrade, platters and dishes, broom, duster 
or scrubbing-brush, you’re alius at it, morning, noon 
and night — it ain’t right, comrade, it ain’t right. You 
don’t leave me anything to do except serve the cus¬ 
tomers. You work too ’ard. Jack . . . and you’re 
still on the sick-list-” 

“ But I like to work — I love it, indeed . . . indeed 
I do! It keeps me from trying to think — trying to 
. . . remember.” 

“But we want ye to remember, comrade — least- 
ways, my pal Jarsper does . . . wants ye to remember 
how you come into the river with your ’ead all cut 
open . . . wants ye to remember your name — all 
about yourself, d’ye see. Jack.” 

The slender brows beneath the bandages wrinkled 
themselves painfully, the eyes closed, the head swayed 
itself to and fro in pitifully helpless fashion. 




Corporal Richard Roe 39 

“ I can’t ... I can’t! I have tried day and night, 
but I . . . can’t! I can’t think backwards! . . . 
There was a dreadful crash . . . and I can’t think 
beyond it ... so don’t —don’t ask me-” 

“Very good, Jack, we’ll let it wait ’till you’re well 
and strong again. So don’t ye worry, comrade — 
stand easy. Sit ye down and smoke a pipe or take a 
drop o’ summat comfortin’-” 

“No — no, thank you, only pray let me help you with 
those figures.” 

“ What, can you cypher, lad? ” 

“I could once ... I can now, I guess . . . please, 
please let me try! ” 

“ With all my heart, comrade! ” answered the Cor¬ 
poral with alacrity, and rising forthwith, reached a 
new pipe from the rack above the mantel, filled, lighted 
it and seating himself on the opposite side of the small 
table, watched his companion’s rapid calculations and 
neat figuring with looks of ever-growing wonder and 
respect : 

“Lord love me, comrade,” he exclaimed suddenly, 
“ the way you tackle them fardens is a-mazing! ” 

“ How so ? ” enquired the other, a little anxiously. 

“Why, you make no more of ’em than the ^Heavies’ 
did o’ they French Cuirassiers at Waterloo! You go 
at ’em, and through ’em, and over ’em and send ’em to 
the right-about! ” 

Here was silence again wherein the Corporal puffed 
and watched in unabated wonder until at last his com¬ 
panion laid down the pen, sighing regretfully. 

“ Have you any more accounts I can cast for you — 
please?” he enquired with tremulous eagerness. 

“What, are ye done, comrade ... so soon? As¬ 
tonishing! And, strike me everlasting blue, not a 
single blot! ” 

“Have you nothing more. Corporal Dick? No 
letters to write?” 




40 The Loring Mystery 

“ Nary a one, comrade. But don’t you worrit! 
Sit still and let’s be sociable and talk like comrades 
should.” 

“ Why, then, don’t — please don’t ask me to re¬ 
member ... It frightens me ... it hurts my head 
to think back.” 

“ Very good, lad, let’s talk of ourselves! Here’s 
you an’ me ought to be true friends and comrades, be¬ 
cause, d’ye see, you’ve been in the river and 1 ’ve been 
in the river, and Jarsper Shrig saved your life same 
as ’e saved my life — so us must ever be true comrades 
to Jarsper likewise, you and me.” 

“Yes — yes indeed. Corporal . . . and he saved 
you too?” 

“Ay, he did so. Ye see. Jack, when I lost this hand 
o’ mine at Waterloo, so soon as I come out o’ ’ospital 
they give me my discharge . . . they didn’t want me 
no more ... a one-’anded soldier ain’t much good, 
d’ye see. But I ’ad n’t got no friends, Jack, nor 
family . . . and I felt there weren’t no place in this 
busy world for a chap wi’ only one ’and. So one night 
— it was raining, I remember—^one night, Jack, I 
went down to the river minded to end it all . . . but 
Jarsper ’ad been watching me . . . and Jarsper fol¬ 
lowed me and seeing what I was about, grappled me 
bold as a lion for all my size, and the end of it was — 
in we went . . . down and down together. And then, 
of course, finding Jarsper couldn’t swim, I ’ad to get 
’im out again — which I did, and . . . well, here I 
am to-day alive and well — thanks to my comrade 
Jarsper! ” 

“So you saved each other. Corporal?” 

“Why, I suppose we did — in a way. Though 
Jarsper saved me first . . . and arterwards. A’ on- 
common good friend is my comrade Jarsper, with a 
heart as big as St. Paul’s.” 

“ He has been very kind to me! ” 


Corporal Richard Roe 41 

“ And he’s doo back to-night, though to be sure 
’t is a goodish march from Gray’s Inn Lane to 
Sussex ...” 

“ Sussex! ” 

The word rang full and clear, in such startling 
contrast to the speaker’s usual diffident utterance that 
the Corporal started, for the name might have been 
uttered by an altogether different man; and for a 
moment Corporal Richard seemed to behold such a 
man, one indeed who stood with head aloft and shoul¬ 
ders squared, whose very form seemed to dilate, who 
looked back at him with eyes wide and bright; then, 
even as the Corporal stared his amazement, these eyes 
dulled, wavered, were abased, the dark brows knit pain¬ 
fully, the proud head dropped, the shoulders sagged 
and the man was lost again in the timid, shrinking 
creature he had been. 

“What, Jack lad — what, comrade, d’ye know 
Sussex, then?” 

“ I ... I thought so . . . for a moment, but now 
I . . . don’t know ... I can’t remember.” 

“ Try lad, try! Here, let’s write it down on this 
bit o’ paper . . . S-U-S-E-X — so! Now, don’t that 
help you none ? ” 

“ No ! ” answered his companion, “No — ah, no 1 ” 
And crouching above the table he buried his face be¬ 
tween writhing fingers. 

“ Poor lad I ” sighed the Corporal, comforting hand 
upon the drooping shoulder. “ Poor young chap! 
There now . . . don’t worrit your ’ead about it, com^ 
rade.” 

“If only I could think back beyond the crash!” 

“ Why, never mind, comrade! Lemme fill you a 
pipe and we ’ll sit quiet and sociable . . . nothing like, 
’bacca, comrade, for-” 

“O, Corporal Dick,” piped a voice from near a1 
hand, “ O, Corporal — if ye please, sir! ” 



42 The Loring Mystery 

The Corporal rose and, stepping into the small tap- 
room, beheld a gaunt woman whose bony arms dripped 
soap-suds; at sight of whose weary face he thrust hand 
into breeches pocket, but she stayed him with a gesture: 

“No — no. Corporal Dick,” quoth she, bobbing him 
a curtsey, “ thankin’ you kindly but me rent’s paid, 
thank Gawd, an’ I got plenty o’ work this week! But 
my little Johnny’s fell down and ’urted hisself an’ is 
a-bellerin’ fit to break your ’eart, pore lamb . . . 
won’t be comforted no’ow, wants your young man, ’e 
do. So please. Corporal Dick, may your young man 
step acrorst the lane an’ tell my little Johnny about 
Cinderyelly? Wonderful way wi’ childer’ your young 
man ’as to be sure! An’ my little lamb’s a-bellerin’ 
so pitiful as I can’t get on wi’ me washin’ — so if your 
young man ’ll be so obleeging as to step acrorst I’d be 
that grateful I can’t say!” 

“Why, I’ll ask him, Mrs. Bascombe,” answered the 
Corporal, dubiously, “ though my young man ain’t 
feeling particular bobbish this evening, mam, but-” 

“ I ’ll come . . . yes, yes, I ’ll come, of course! ” 
said the young man in question, stepping eagerly for¬ 
ward, “ I love children, they . . . keep me from trying 
to remember . , . yes, yes I ’ll come, mam.” 

So the young man presently stepped across Gray’s 
Inn Lane with the weary, distracted mother and very 
soon was seated in an atmosphere of steam and soap¬ 
suds with a very small and somewhat grimy urchin on 
his knee who stared up round-eyed into the face bent 
above him, a face so altogether gentle because so vastly 
wise in childish sorrows that the small urchin, nestling 
close, swallowed his sobs, dried his tears and forgot 
his griefs while the soft voice recounted the dire perils 
of Jack the Giant-Killer, of Puss-in-Boots and Red 
Riding Hood, until even the haggard woman must 
pause in her labours now and then to hearken, her 
aching weariness forgotten awhile. 



CHAPTER VI 

A Discourse on the Vun and Only 

Mr. Shrig, seated in the cosy parlour of “The Gun”, 
with his dusty boots upon the gleaming fender, his 
hat and great-coat upon their accustomed peg, raised 
the steaming glass to his lips, sipped, tasted and 
sighed. 

“All correct, Jarsper?” enquired the Corporal. 

“ As ever, Dick — ek’alled by few and excelled by 
none.” 

“And how’s the country looking, Jarsper” 

“ Green, Dick, vith birds a-vistlin’ an’ lambs a- 
friskin’, but . . . gimme London, an’ for true comfort 
this here ‘ Gun ’ of oum-” 

“Yourn, Jarsper!” 

“Ourn, Dick.” 

Here they smoked in silence awhile, both staring 
pertinaciously at the small though cheery fire. 

“Any luck, Jarsper.?” questioned the Corporal at 
last. 

“ Middlin’, Dick, though nothin’ to boast on.” 

“And the — clue, Jarsper.?” 

“A-vaitin’ for the occasion or, as you might say, 
the opportoonity, Dick.” 

“And when will that be.?” 

“V’y, Dick, I’ll tell ye — I dunno!” 

“ Ha! ” quoth the Corporal, and they puffed together 
in thoughtful silence again. 

“ And how might our inwalid be gettin’ along.? ” 
Mr. Shrig enquired at last. 



44 The Loring Mystery 

“Better, Jarsper, and a’ oncommon likeable chap 
’e is — though over timid-like.” 

“And a gentleman — a nob, eh, Dick.^” 

“ True blue! ” nodded the Corporal. “ And very 
friendly except when ’e goes dazed-like.” 

“ That there crack ’e got on the tibby vas enough to 
daze a’ elephant, Dick!” 

“I believe you, Jarsper.” 

“Any marks on ’is clo’es — ha’ you found anythin’?” 

“Nothing at all, Jarsper!” 

“And ’e don’t remember nothin’ about himself yet, 
Dick? ” 

“Nary a thing? Jarsper! And when I question him 
’e wrinkles up ’is forr’id and stares like — ah, like a 
child as has lost itself—so troubled, Jarsper, and 
frightened-like, poor chap. But ’e ’s a wonder to 
work! Broom or scrubbin’-brush . . . alius a-scrub- 
bin’ or a-scourin’ or a-polishin’ summat or other, I 
can’t keep him from it! And as for cypherin’ — Lord, 
Jarsper, ’e added up my week’s accounts an’ all so 
easy an’ amazin’ quick — so neat, Jarsper — not a blot, 
damme, not one! ” 

“ But still ’e don’t remember nothing about any¬ 
thing, eh, Dick?” 

“Why, no, Jarsper, no — and yet I won’t be 
sure-” 

“Not sure, Dick — eh?” Mr. Shrig’s keen gaze 
flitted from the hearth to the top button of the Cor¬ 
poral’s sleeved waistcoat and hovered there. “Not 
sure — eh, Dick ? ” he repeated. 

“ Well, d’ye see, I ’appened to mention the word 
‘Sussex,’ Jarsper.” 

“ The vord ‘ Sussex ’ ! ” nodded Mr. Shrig, “ Ay, 
Dick—an’ then?” 

“ Why, then ’e jumped as if ’e’d been shot, Jarsper! ” 

“Jumped, did’e, Dick?” 

“ Ay, and — ‘ Sussex ’ says ’e, very bold an’ sharp- 



The Vun and Only 45 

like, ‘ Sussex,’ says ’e, and stands up straight as a 
guardsman.” 

“Bold an’ sharp-like, eh, Dick — an’ then?” 

“Why, then ’e wrinkled up ’is forr’id, shakes ’is 
’ead, covers ’is face and moans about not being able 
to remember-” 

“ An’ all by reason o’ you namin’ the vord 
‘ Sussex ’ ? ” 

“ Ay! ” nodded the Corporal. “ Which was strange.” 

“ Sussex! ” repeated Mr. Shrig, his gaze now upon 
the ceiling, “ Sussex — hum! ” 

“ Jarsper, what do you think about it?” 

“ V’y, Dick, I ’ll tell ye — I rayther think I hear our 
inwalid a-comin’ down the passage! ” 

Even as he spoke the door opened and the Nameless 
One entered and, seeing Mr. Shrig, paused suddenly 
with that timid, shrinking air peculiar to him. Young 
he was and wide in the shoulder, long-limbed, slender 
and formed for speed; but these shoulders slouched 
awkwardly, the supple back was bowed, the feet shuffled 
and the long, white fingers writhed and plucked ner¬ 
vously, while the dark brows knit themselves above 
dull eyes that peered. Noting all of which in a single 
glance, Mr. Shrig rose and welcomed him heartily, 
though the hand he laid on this drooping shoulder 
was surprisingly gentle: 

“Well, pal,” quoth he, “how goes it?” 

“ Thank you, I . . . don’t know.” 

“Then how d’ye find yourself to-night, friend?” 

“I — I don’t ... I can’t find myself ... I never 
shall! ” answered the other with look and tone so hope¬ 
less that Mr. Shrig shook his head: 

“Lord, never say die, pal! You ’ll find yourself sure 
an’ sartin vun o’ these days. And here’s me an’ Cor¬ 
poral Dick as is your friends, come, sit ye down, pal, 
’ere by the fire vith a drop o’ the Vun an’ Only — let’s 
be comfortable.” 



46 The Loring Mystery 

“ Thank you but . . . I’d rather not . . 

“Eh — v’y so, pal?” 

“Because you may question me . . . ask me to re¬ 
member, and when I try ... it hurts ... I grow 
frightened. So, if you ’ll allow, I’d rather go and work 
. . . there are some glasses and tankards to be washed 
and-” 

“ No, no, pal, no more vork to-night! Sit ye down 
by the fire — so ! An’ as for qvestions. Lord love ye, 
I won’t ax you nothin’ at all — scrag me if I do ! Now 
look’ee, here’s Corporal Dick tells me you ’re amazin’ 
smart at figgerin’, or as you might say, cypherin’ 
accounts an’ sich — pounds, shillings, pence an’ fardens, 
they come easy to you — vich they don’t to the Cor¬ 
poral — eh Dick ? ” 

“Not by no manner o’ means!” nodded the Cor¬ 
poral through a cloud of tobacco-smoke. 

“ Contrarywise, castin’ up accounts is bonce to you — 
comes to you as nat’ral, shall ve say, as milk to a 
ninfant — you’re a glutton for figures — eh?” 

“They keep me from trying ... to remember.” 

“Werry good! But look’ee, if you take over the 
accounts us ’ll ’ave to pay you a reg’lar veekly vage — 
agreed, Dick ? ” 

“Agreed it is, an’ heartily, Jarsper!” 

“No, no!” cried the other, cowering down in his 
chair. “ Don’t give me money ... I don’t wish to be 
paid ... I want no money . . .” 

“ Lord love me! ” ej aculated Mr. Shrig, blinking. 

“ I hate money! ” 

“ By Goles! ” murmured Mr. Shrig, “ your senti¬ 
ments is rum, pal, remarkable rum ! ” 

“ So please don’t pay me . . . what should I do 
with money ? ” 

“ Veil, you might spend it, pal, or keep it, or give it 
away-” 

“ Thank you — thank you, I ... am better without 




I The Vun and Only 47 

J it. Money brings trouble and pain, and . . . dark 
evils . . 

“ Vich I ’ll not wentur’ to deny, pal. An’ yet money’s 
a nevil as all folks is most oncommon eager to curse 
’emselves vith. Aye, Money, Vomen, si,nd Windictive- 
ness, or, as you might say, Wengeance, is the motive 
for all the murders as ever vas commit! An’ talkin’ 

I o’ murder, Dick, brings me back to the country.” 

‘‘Eh.^’’ exclaimed the Corporal, staring. 

I “ So nice an’ green, Dick, vith birds a-vistlin’ an’ 

I lambs a-friskin’ so innocent ’t would warm your ’eart! 

I An’ vhat partic’lar part o’ the country, says you? 
[ A rare pretty part, says I, vith ’ills, Dick, soft, green 
’ills as go up an’ up, though they calls ’em ‘ Downs ’, 
Dick —• though ’ow an ^ up ’ can be a ‘ down ’ beats 
me! Hows’ever, Downs they be! And whereabouts, 
says you?” continued Mr. Shrig, stooping to shake 
the ashes from his pipe-bowl, but with his keen gaze 
flitting towards the huddled form in the chimney- 
corner, V’ere are these ‘ downs ’ as is ‘ ups ’ vith 
larks a-carollin’ so j’yful, says you? In Sussex! says 
I — ah, does your pore ’ead bother you, pal?” he 
questioned suddenly, for the crouching form had 
crouched lower with head between clasping hands, 
while from his quivering lips issued a groaning whisper : 

Sussex!” 

“V’at is it, pal?” 

Nothing — nothing . . . only, for a moment, I 
thought ... it seemed . . . but I cannot . . . can¬ 
not remember.” 

Then don’t try, lad, don’t try! ” said Mr. Shrig, 
patting the writhing shoulder gently. “V’at vas I 
sayin’, Dick? Ah, I remember—Sussex vas the vord! 
And v’at, says you, v’at should take you into Sussex? 
Murder, says I! Murder, Dick, an’ all along o’ money, 
says I! V’at but the murder o’ this here pore young 
gen’leman. Sir David Loring-” 




48 The Loring Mystery 

‘‘David . . . Loring!” 

The chair went over with a crash and the Nameless 
One was upon his feet, staring on Mr. Shrig wide-eyed, 
his bandaged head up-flung, and with pallid face, like 
drooping form, utterly transfigured: 

“David . . . Loring.P” 

The flushed cheek, the quivering nostril, the dilating 
eye were eloquent for the moment, then — the long 
arms were wildly out-flung, the writhing hands clutched 
desperately at the empty air . . . the head sank, the 
futile hands wavered aimlessly, were clasped above the 
staring eyes and a groan burst from him: 

“ O God — O God ... I can’t — I can’t . . . re¬ 
member!” and sinking back into the chair the miser¬ 
able, crouching form was shaken and convulsed by 
great gasping sobs. Then Mr. Shrig’s arm was about 
him, and Mr. Shrig’s glass at his lips. 

“ Drink this, lad — drink ! ” he commanded; now 
beholding Mr. Shrig’s face at this moment, the Cor¬ 
poral’s pipe slipped from his fingers and shivered upon 
the floor all unheeded. 

“ How are ye now, pal ? ” 

“ Thank you . . . very well — I think . . .” 

“ You seemed a bit — shook! ” 

“It was nothing . . . only it seemed as if ... a 
curtain lifted — just for a moment ... I can’t ex¬ 
plain . . .” 

“You thought you reckernized the name — David 
Loring — p’r’aps?” 

“No . . . yes — I don’t know ... I can’t re¬ 
member . . .” 

“Why, it ain’t a name to be easy forgot — David 
Loring . . . bein’ the name of a young gent, heir to a 
great fortun’ as took ship from Virginny in America 
for Loring Chase, vich is a fine, large house in Sussex, 
vich is vun o’ the Southerly counties of England . . . 
David Loring o’ Charlestown, Virginny, as started 


The Vun and Only 49 

for Loring Chase, Sussex, England and — never got 
there . . . Think! ” 

Hands that clutched bandaged head, staring eyes 
beneath puckered brows — brows that grew wet beneath 
these clasping, pallid hands compressed in fierce and 
desperate thought ... a grim and pregnant silence 
... a breathless stillness broken suddenly at last by 
a wail of childish petulance: 

‘‘ I can’t ... I can’t! Don’t ask me ... it hurts ! 
I think, if you ’ll excuse me I ... I ’ll go to bed! ” 

“ And a werry good place, too! ” nodded Mr. Shrig. 
“So tip us your daddle, and good-night, pal — sleep 
sound! ” So saying Mr. Shrig grasped those lax fin¬ 
gers, wrung them in hearty grasp and, opening the door, 
stood to watch that drooping, shambling form until a 
turn in the narrow passage hid it from view. 

“ Poor young chap! ” exclaimed the Corporal, as 
the shuffling feet went stumbling uncertainly up the 
steep stairs. “ What d’ye make of ’im, Jarsper? ” 

“ Dick,” answered Mr. Shrig, reaching a glowing 
coal from the fire wherewith to relight his pipe, “ if I 
could tell you I should sap-rise you! Ah, if I vas to 
lay afore you my de-ductions I should as-tonish you! 
But not being easy wi’ mj^proofs, dammem, I thinks 
an’ says nothin’, not a vord, Dick — only this: v’en a 
murder is commit, I ax myself this qvestion: who 
benefits — v’at vas the motive, Dick — werry good! 
But, damme, Dick, jest as I’m a-buildin’ up a werry 
bee-utiful case agin — Mr. Nevermindoo and ’opin’ to 
clap my daddies on ’im afore ’e — as you might say — 
’ops the tvig, my ’opes is shattered most crool and I’m 
flummergasted, Dick, reg’lar conflummoxed and con- 
flummerated and my bee-utiful case is novheres . . . 
An’ all along o’ big little-fingers as should be little! 
An’ there y’are, Dick ! ” 

“ Why, Jarsper,” said the Corporal, rubbing neat 
whisker with shining hook and shaking his comely head. 


50 The Loring Mystery 

“I don’t eggsactly twig your meaning ... I don’t 
tumble, comrade! ” 

‘‘No more I thought you vould, Dick . . . An’ now, 
pal, v’at d’ye say to jest vun more sip o’ your Vun 
an’ Only afore ve go to roost ? ” 


CHAPTER VII 

In Which Our Hero Sets Forth on a Journey 

“ Loring Chase, Sussex! ” 

He was sitting, crouched upon his bed, staring wide- 
eyed upon the dark. Mr. Shrig and the Corporal had 
tramped upstairs long ago; a distant clock chimed 
midnight. 

“ Loring Chase, Sussex! ” 

Amid the chaos of shattered thoughts, the nightmare 
terrors that clouded his mind, the sickening agony of 
his ever-futile efforts to recall the past, these words 
stood forth, stirring dim memories of another world, 
of hopes, ambitions ... a different self. Who had 
he been and what? How came he thus lost in the 
terrible dark where indefinable horrors lurked? 

The distant clock struck one, and two, and three; 
the narrow casement above him glimmered to a pallid 
dawn. Sighing, he lifted weary head and, rising at 
last, crept to the window and peered out upon a misty 
world of tiled roofs and crooked chimneys that rose, 
phantom-like, shrouded in billowing mists. 

“ Loring Chase, Sussex! ” 

Suddenly the crouching form grew more erect, 
the dulled eyes lightened: “Loring Chase, Sussex!” 
Could he but reach such a place there perhaps he might 
find the answer to these torturing questions. . . . 
Could he but reach such a place. 

Creeping to the door he opened it stealthily and 
stood listening Intently; from somewhere adjacent rose 
a long-drawn snore somewhat muted by bedclothes. 
Slowly and with infinite caution he crossed the small 


52 The Loring Mystery 

landing and began to descend the narrow stair, pausing 
breathless at every creak of the ancient timbering, 
but heard only the throbbing of his own heart and the 
muffled snoring above. Thus at length he reached the 
street-door and, gently loosing bolt and chain, stepped 
out into a dawn full of chilling mist. Having softly 
reclosed the door, he glanced fearfully up and around, 
then hurried away heedless of direction, hastening on 
and on through desolate streets until, turning a sharp 
corner, he stopped and shrank back fearfully at sight 
of a great-coated watchman slumbering noisily in his 
box, but who, rousing suddenly, sat up to stare and 
scowl: 

“ Now then — now then! ” he growled. “V’ere might 
you be off to so perishin’ early an’ all.? ” 

“Will you please tell me the way to . . . Loring 
Chase, Sussex.?” 

“ Sussex! ” exclaimed the watchman, scowling fiercer. 
“ Sussex, is it — yah, don’t come gammonin’ me wi’ 
y’r Sussex’s so perishin’ early in the mornin’ an’ all! ” 
And rising, he began to swing his arms and stamp 
his feet to restore circulation, what time he eyed his 
questioner with deepening suspicion: 

“V’at ha’ you been a-doin’ of . . . vith your ’ead 
all bound up an’ all.? Hey.? ” 

“ I was hurt.” 

“Ooby.? ’Ow.?” 

“ I . . . don’t remember.” 

“O! An’ v’ere’s your ’at.?” 

“ I . . . don’t know ! ” 

“ V’ere did ye steal them gen’leman’s clo’es an’ all.? 
Hey.? ” 

“ They are my own ... I guess . . . But pray tell 
me the way to Sussex-” 

“ Sussex! ” repeated the watchman with a snort of 
contempt. “Me eye an’ Betty Martin! Sussex, says 
you.? Hookey Valker says I — yah, Valker!” 



53 


A Journey 

“ Thank you, but which way must I walk 
“’Ere an’ theer! Up an’ down! Toiler y’r nose! 
Yah, you can’t gammon me wi’ your Sussex an’ all! ” 
At this the humble questioner, troubled and sorely 
puzzled, sighed, wrinkled his brows and went his solitary 
way. All about him lay a wilderness of empty streets 
where London’s teeming multitudes slumbered; and yet 
even at this early hour was a hushed, never-ending 
clamour of traffic upon cobbled ways where country 
wains and waggons trundled heavily marketwards. 

Slowly the great city began to awake; from a myriad 
chimneys smoke curled lazily against the brightening 
sky; doors opened; the erstwhile empty streets began 
to echo with the tread of feet, the tramp of horses and 
the grind of wheels, few at first but of ever-growing 
numbers, more and more, until the pavements rang to 
the tramp of an innumerable host and the passage of 
multitudinous vehicles, and the mighty city was broad 
awake at last, and roaring; for these trampling feet 
hurrying hither and thither, the grind and rattle of 
wheels upon cobbled thoroughfares, the ring of horses’ 
hoofs, the shouts and cries of their drivers, these of 
themselves made up a continuous roar that was the 
voice of mighty London Town. And, dazed and deaf¬ 
ened by it all, jostled by these hurrying throngs, yet 
heeded by none, crept the hero of this narrative — a 
pitiful, shrinking creature and eminently unheroic. 

Such people of whom he ventured to ask his way 
either stared, shook their heads, scowled, or (what 
was worse) laughed and mocked at him; a perspiring 
ticket-porter it was who eventually directed his shuf¬ 
fling progress southeasterly. So came he at last to 
London Bridge and paused to lean, and stare down upon 
the dark and hungry waters of the river, viewing that 
sullen tide with a vague horror. 

Now, as he stared down thus, conscious of nothing 
but these dismal waters and the sick terrors they 



54 The Loring Mystery 

evoked, a hand grasped his arm, and glancing round, 
he beheld a woman clad in shabby, threadbare gar¬ 
ments, who gazed upon him with a fearful apprehen¬ 
sion in her eyes: 

“ Don’t look at it! ” she whispered: “ Don’t look at 
it or it ’ll get you same as it’s got others . . . same 
as it near got me 1 So don’t ’ee look at it, young man! 
Things is never quite s’bad as they seems — I know, for 
things is bad wi’ me — ah, worse’n bad ... all the 
best o’ me took an’ died — long ago . . . but I didn’t 
go that road for my mother’s sake! Lives down in 
the country, she do . . . thinks I’m better off than 
when I left her to run away to London — London . . . 
O God — ’ow I ’ate it! ” 

“ Then why not go back ? ” he questioned gently. 
‘‘ Why not go — back to the country ? ” 

‘‘Because I can’t ... I daren’t — never again! 
London’s got me an’ won’t let me go . . . never again 
. . . it’s — got me! ” 

“ Like the ravening beast it is! ” he answered. 
“ Hark to it roaring! ” 

“ What d’ye mean, young man ? ” 

“ The voice of the Beast! ” 

At this she looked at him with troubled eyes and 
shook her head. 

“ ’Ows’ever, don’t ’ee go starin’ at the river! ” she 
repeated. “Don’t ’ee, or ’twill get ye — same as it 
nigh got me once . . . and will in the end — p’r’aps! 
Go away, young man, get away while ye may.” 

“Yes,” said he, “yes, I am going to Sussex.” 

Now at this she cried the word beneath her breath 
and burst into a passion of weeping, hiding her face 
in her thin shawl. 

“Why—O, why do you weep.^” he questioned 
distressfully. 

“Only because I was born — in Sussex!” she an¬ 
swered, checking her sobs. “My old mother lives at 


A Journey 55 

Lewes, that’s all! Keeps a little huckster’s shop, 
she do . . . just over the bridge . . . name o’ Martin 
. . . and worrits ’er dear ’eart for me, I know . . . 
And so, young man, d’appen you get Lewes way, will 
’ee find my old mother and say her Nance is — well, 
quite well and — happy?” She sobbed, stifling her 
misery in the threadbare shawl. “Will ’ee do this for 
a poor, miserable creeter, young man? Lewes . . . 
the little shop beyond the bridge . . . name o’ Martin 
. . . O will ye do this for me, young man? ” 

“ I will,” he answered. 

“ Why, then, God bless ’ee! And now go, for you’ve 
a long road afore ye — good-bye, good luck and . . . 
God be kind to ’ee, young man! ” So saying she smiled 
wanly through her tears and shrouding herself in the 
scanty shawl was lost amid the hurrying throng. 

Then, turning his back upon the “ ravening beast ” 
the hero of this narrative trudged away to adventure 
the unknown. 


CHAPTER VIII 

Affordeth a Passing Vision of Our Heroine 

Vain were it and wearisome to fully relate all his 
inconsequent ramblings, the many indignities he suf¬ 
fered, the ill-usage to which he was subjected, mocked 
at and abused by such wandering outcasts as he fell 
in with, the sport of brutish Ignorance, the very butt 
of Circumstance; fully to describe all this would be as 
painful in the relation as in the reading, and indeed 
has small bearing upon the main issues of this narration. 

Let us then but ghmpse him as he trudges resolutely 
southward all day long amid dust and heat, wind and 
rain, creeping at night into the shelter of some lonely 
rick or leafy hedge, jaded, hungry, friendless, yet 
upborne by the one indomitable purpose; upon his 
mumbling lip, for all and sundry, always and ever the 
same question: 

“ Which is the way to Loring Chase, Sussex.?” 

With this brief glimpse let us haste on to a certain 
hot, windless afternoon some weeks later when, gaunt 
and haggard, he turned from the heat and dusty glare 
of the road and crept into the cool, green shade of a 
wood whose twilight held a peace all its own, a hush 
of soft-stirring leaves, the fluty trill of a bird, the 
murmurous ripple of running water. 

Lured by this right pleasant sound, he hastened 
forward eager to assuage his thirst and presently came 
upon a brook whose crystal waters sparkled in a fugitive 
shaft of sunlight. 

So he drank his All, bathed his hands and face and, 
greatly comforted and refreshed, sat staring down at 


Our Heroine 57 

this joyous, babbling rill and presently sank into a 
half-doze. He was roused suddenly by a distant cry, 
a woman’s voice fiercely upraised and the wild tramp¬ 
ling of hoofs; hereupon he arose and pushing his way 
amid the underbrush came upon a wide green track 
or ride down which a tall and powerful horse galloped 
furiously and upon his back a woman low-crouched, 
her long, red-gold hair streaming from beneath feath¬ 
ered hat, her gloved hands gripped short upon the 
reins. And as he stared he heard again that loud, fierce 
cry, at which sound the great grey horse leapt, it seemed, 
to wilder pace; on he came, filling the woodland with 
the muffled thunder of his pounding hoofs, nearer and 
nearer until, above tossing mane, the watcher could 
behold a sullen, beautiful face, vivid of mouth, pallid 
of cheek, wide-eyed . . . 

Instinctively the watcher crouched and, as the horse 
swept by, sprang and caught at the bridle, missed, and 
was hurled aside, was conscious of a shock, a roaring 
flame that seemed to scorch his brain . . . 



CHAPTER IX 

Of Peabody, the Poor Person’s Practitioner 

“Better now?” enquired a voice, faint from im¬ 
measurable distances. Our traveller sighed, made to 
open his eyes, found it an effort and lay still. “ Better? 
Ay — better and better! ” said the voice. “ He lives — 
good! Or is it bad? Have I recalled from Styx de¬ 
serving yet distressed Virtue or reduced Roguery — 
which ? However-” 

Here our sufferer succeeded in opening his eyes and 
found himself staring up into a face bent over him, a 
round face wherein two round eyes peered down at him 
through large, round, horn-rimmed spectacles. 

“Young man,” quoth the face, blinking owl-like 
through these spectacles, “ thy most desperate attempt 
at suicide succeeds not, thine act of felo-de-se frustrate 
is by reason o’ the extreme thickness, the extraordinary 
hardness o’ thy cranium, thy head, mazzard, or nob. 
However! Thanks to this abnormal thickness of your 
osseous processes and my humble self, you still draw 
the vital air- 

“ Who — who are you? ” 

“ Peabody’s my name,” answered the little man, 
“Augustus Arthur Peabody, specialist in corns, warts, 
bunions, coughs, colds, the colic, megrims and the pip 
— I ’ll physic ye inside or out — there’s never an ail¬ 
ment I can’t alleviate — especially corns! A Chiropo¬ 
dist? No! I’m no pedantic pedicure — certainly not! 
I’m Peabody, the Poor Person’s Plain Practitioner, 
and all by force o’ circumstances. Wine? No ! Women? 





Of Peabody 59 

No! My reduction from an erstwhile modest independ- 
I ence to a curer of corns was horses . . . the gee-gees 
. . . the noble quadruped. I peddle pills, potions and 
patent fly-flaps and traps, but my patent corn-cure is 
the thing . . 

“ Pray, sir, how came I here ... in this wood . . . 
hurt ? ” 

‘‘Your own doing, young man. However! Here 
you lie, fairly comfortable, thanks to me, your contused 
crown beautifully bandaged and thoroughly soaked 
and soothed by my corn-cure-” 

“ Corn-cure! ” exclaimed our traveller, starting. 
“ But, good heavens, fellow-” 

“Lie still, young man, don’t worry, my corn-cure 
cures everything, innocently innocuous, a complex com¬ 
pound chiefly concocted of H 2 O with ... a dash o’ 
mystery, so cheer up. How are ye now — less dizzy?” 

“Yes, thank you!” 

“Good . . . that’s the corn-cure! How d’ye feel 
generally — hungry? ” 

“Yes.” 

“Excellent . . . that’s the corn-cure! Nothing 
I like plenty of HgO — with a dash o’ mystery. How- 
1 ever! Head ache much ? ” 

I “ Horribly! ” 

“ Good again, if it did n’t you’d bn deader than last 
week’s mutton-” 

“Surely there was ... I seem to remember — a 
lady ? ” 

“Young man, there was ... a youthful dame, yet 
of aspect haughty, of manners lofty, wearing, together 
with other garments, a plumed hat — a feathered 
fortune! However! ‘Is the man hurt?’ says she, 
deigning to check her wild career, ‘Temporary con¬ 
cussion, madam,’ says I, ‘induced by docal shock!’ 
‘ Poor man! ’ says she. ‘ Poor indeed and very much 
so, madam, judging by his looks!’ saya I, pointedly 






6 o The Loring Mystery 

prompt . . . Indeed, young man, I was so very 
promptly pointed that she proved more generous and 
came down handsomer than I would have thought — 
behold! Five shillings — for you, there y’are — take 
’em, I’m an honest man — by nature, alas — can’t help 
it. However 1 ” 

“Five shillings.? For me.? But why.?” enquired 
our traveller, sitting up with an effort. 

“Why, for knocking you down, of course, and gen¬ 
erous, considering it was entirely your own fault . . . 
take your money! ” 

Hereupon our traveller reached out, took the coins 
and tossed them over his shoulder into the dense- 
growing thicket. 

“Why, dash me-1” gasped the little man, blink¬ 

ing mor,e owl-like than ever. “ Strike me deaf, blind 
and dumb if I ever saw the like o’ this 1 . . . Five 
shillings! Thrown away! Lost! Never to be found! 
Well — damme! What are you, sir — who the Fiend 
are you to go hurling good money to the confounded 
rabbits — who are ye.? ” 

“Well,” answered our traveller in strangely soft, 
un-English drawl, “ since you ask me, I’m David 
Loring on my way to-” 

He stopped suddenly to clasp his head, to stare be¬ 
tween shaking hands at his worn boots and dusty 
limbs, to glance round about him in dazed fashion like 
one newly awakened, and to laugh for very gladness; 
laughter, this, that grew ever more shrill and hysterical 
until, somehow or other, he smothered it at last and 
sat rocking himself to and fro, face hidden in his hands, 
murmuring over and over again: 

“ David Loring ... I am David Loring! ” 

“Eh.?” exclaimed Mr. Peabody, observing him with 
growing apprehension. “What name did you say.? 
David — who.? ” 

“Loring ... I am David Loring! Why, what 




Of Peabody 6i 

now?” For Peabody had risen and was looking down 
at David very strangely. 

“I think,” he answered, ‘‘I’m pretty sure your 
tumble hath affected you more than I thought!” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, if I was you, and hankered after a high- 
sounding name, I should choose some other — any 

other . . . De Vere, f’r’nstance, or Verney, or-” 

I “ And why not Loring? ” 

“ Because ’t is a well-hated name hereabouts, being 
I the name of a merciless devil, a fiend, a blue-blooded 

I scoundrel-” 

! “ Whom do you mean ? ” 

I “ I mean Sir Nevil Loring . . . and I’m not afraid 
I to say so — not I! Peabody fears no man alive, and 
I as for Sir Nevil . . . well, I should like to, ha’ the 
dissecting of his cadaver! His heart would be a 
I pathological curiosity — if he has one. However I ” 

Here the Poor Persons’ Practitioner adjusted a 
somewhat bulky pack upon his shoulders, donned a 
high-crowned, wide-awake hat and nodded: 

“You’ve an honest look about you, young man,” 
quoth he, “ so, if by reason o’ your cracked cranium 
and consequent local shock you feel called upon to 
adopt another name than your own—choose some-* 
thing less noxious than Loring.” 

“Thank you, I will! ” 

“ And if you should need work, I might find a job for 
ye. You can hear o’ me at the ‘ Rearing Horse ’ Inn 
for the next day or so, then I am off to Lewes Fair.” 

“ The ‘ Rearing Horse ’? ” repeated David. “Yes — 
yes . . . thanks, I shall not forget . . . good-bye!” 

“ Oho, you ’re uncommon eager to be rid o’ me, 
young man! If you ’re hoping to get a word with the 
lady, your cake will be dough, my lad — she’s meat for 
your betters! But you ’re young, and all young men 
are fools ! However! ” 






62 The Loring Mystery 

So saying Mr. Peabody nodded, not unkindly, and 
ambled away leaving David in a rapture; for in place 
of the timid, shrinking creature he had been, the poor, 
futile thing of an hour ago, he felt himself a man again, 
rejoicing in his new-found self, bold for action and 
confident in his powers and the future. 

Lost in this ecstasy he sat oblivious to all else until, 
roused at last by some sound, he glanced up to behold 
the lady approaching, her great horse moving at a 
gentle gait, his proud crest drooping, his glossy coat in 
a lather as by hard riding; espying David, she drew 
rein and sat looking down at him. Tall she was and 
well-shaped, a handsome, vigorous creature with sullen 
eyes, a full-lipped, petulant mouth and resolute chin; 
and yet, despite her vigorous youth and arrogant air, 
David saw within these sullen eyes an expression of 
— was it griefCould it be fear.? If so, of what.? Of 
whom.? 

“Are you better.?” she enquired in tone of utter 
indifference. 

“ Better than I was — thanks to you, lady! ” he 
answered, rising instinctively. 

“Why did you throw yourself upon my Brutus so 
madly.?” 

“ I conceived that you were in danger, mam.” 

“ Have you never seen a woman gallop a horse be¬ 
fore.? ” 

“Never so wildly.” 

“Do you know that you are trespassing, mafi.? 
You had best go before the keepers find you . . . 
there is small mercy shown to vagrants hereabouts.” 

“ I will go right now, lady! But first can you 
direct me to a house called Loring Chase.?” 

“ I live there! ” she answered, frowning suddenly. 

“ Indeed . . . are you a Loring,^, madam.?” 

“ God forbid! ” she cried, with sudden strange vehe¬ 
mence. “No — no, not I! There is no abominable 


Of Peabody 63 

stain of Lorin,g blood in me, thank Heaven! I am a 
foundling.” Here she gathered her reins and conde¬ 
scended him a nod. “As for you, I should advise you 

to go about your business-” 

“ Yes, mam! ” he answered, bowing with ceremoni¬ 
ous grace. “Pray how may I reach Loring Chase?” 
“What is your business there?” she demanded. 

“I desire to speak with Sir Nevil Loring-” 

“ Speak with . . . him! ” she exclaimed, visibly 
amazed and with a momentary pause before the pro¬ 
noun. “Speak with Sir Nevil — you!” she repeated, 
amazement changing to contempt. “ Sir Nevil will not 
trouble himself with . . . such as you! ” 

“ Then, lady, such as I must trouble myself with 
Sir Nevil.” 

“You — would dare?” she questioned curiously. 

“ I would, mam-” , 

“ Because you don’t know him I ” 

“ Because I desire to know him, lady,” David 
corrected. 

“And who are you that is so venturesome?” 

For a moment it was in his mind to confess himself, 
but chilled by her arrogant bearing and remember¬ 
ing the stubble on his chin, he shook his head: “ A 
destitute nobody,” he answered, “ a homeless wanderer.” 
“Sir Nevil keeps the stocks for such!” she retorted. 
“ There are worse places ! ” he answered. 

“And you are determined to see — him?” she ques- 
tibned, leaning towards him. 

“Yes, lady.” 

“ Then the house lies beyond the trees yonder,” said 
she, with a scornful gesture of her riding-whip. “ But 
should you contrive to see him he may strike you — 

have you thrown' out by the footman-” 

“ I must risk J]jat, mam,” said David, glancing 
towards the trees in question, he sounds a somewhat 
ferocious gentleman-” 







64 The Loring Mystery 

“ He is hatefully, bitterly cruel! ” she cried in sud¬ 
den, wild passion, “A mocking devil . . . merciless as 
death-” 

“ I’m the more anxious to make his acquaintance, 
lady. But why do you speak such evil of him to a 
stranger? ” 

“Because he is all evil!” she cried between white 
teeth, “Too evil to live! Too evil to die! And yet 
he ought to die — he ought to die. . . . Oh ’t is time 
someone killed him before he drives me to it-” 

David recoiled a step, shocked to see the beautiful 
face suffused, the deep eyes ablaze, the delicate nostrils 
palpitant. 

“ Hush, lady! ” he exclaimed, “ Hush, mam, you talk 
wildly-” 

“ Because I am wild! ” she panted, “ Desperate with 
loathing . . . horror! He is so coldly determined 
. . . so evil . . . hateful-” 

“Anticlea!” called a woman’s voice, all tremulous 
with eager love, “Anticlea . . . O my dear, my dear! 
O child, how I have worried! He told me you were 
riding that dreadful Brutus and I came . . . run¬ 
ning ...” 

“ B’lindy — my own dearest dear! ” cried the young 
Amazon, but with look and tone so changed, so ineffably 
tender that David stared, amazed at the swift tran¬ 
sition, and turned to behold one who hasted towards 
them, a small, slender little woman, pale and insig¬ 
nificant but for her eyes, the splendour of silky, snow- 
white hair and the passion of mother-love that glorified 
her every look and lone and gesture. 

“ Dearest B’lindy, why trouble, why worry your dear 
small head for such a great, wild creature as poor me? 
And as for Brutus, see how I have tamed him! ” 

‘'And your beautiful hair all down! ” wailed B’lindy, 
“ and your habit torn! O ’Clea, some day he will kill 
you — I know-” 







Of Peabody 65 

“ So much the better, dearest . . . sometimes I wish 
he might! ” 

“Don’t, ’Clea — don’t! Ah no, no, how could I en¬ 
dure without you I ” The gentle, pleading voice broke 
upon a sob, the white head was bowed upon the small 
white hands and then, with sudden pantherine leap, 
Anticlea had leapt to earth, had run to clasp that frail 
body in her strong, protecting arms, soothing, coaxing, 
caressing: 

“ Hush, Belovedst! ” she murmured, “ There, there 
— never weep for wicked me — you who have so many 
griefs 1 ... I only mount Brutus when I’m most 
desperate — driven almost beyond endurance! The 
thrill of danger saves me from . . . worse things per¬ 
haps. Ah, B’lindy dear, you are quite distraught — 
yes, yes, I know . . . and I have frightened you — 
O hateful me! Come away, dearest, come . . .” And 
so, with arms entwined, the elder woman clinging to 
the younger, they turned and presently vanished amid 
the green, leaving David to stare after them in troubled 
wonderment and the huge horse Brutus to snort, shake 
his handsome crest and crop the grass with great ap¬ 
parent gusto. 


CHAPTER X 

Recounts How Loring Met Loring 

In his great elbow-chair, with slender hands crossed 
upon his gold-knobbed cane, his age-old eyes turned 
pertinaciously towards the logs smouldering in the 
wide chimney, sat Sir Nevil Loring as if wholly un¬ 
conscious of the tall, sedate young gentleman who stood 
beside him demurely patient, and so very still, except 
for the convulsive twitching of the hands behind his 
back. 

At last Sir Nevil spoke, but without deigning his 
hearer a glance: 

“So you love the vixen, do you, Maulverer.? You, 
a high-minded, estimable young man, stoop to bestow 
your so honourable regard upon a female devil — a 
nameless bantling I took from the parish merely because 
at that tender age her kicking, screaming, infantile 
tantrums amused me. . . . You, of all men, honour 
this creature with your very respectful love.?^ Absurd!” 

The tall, stately, sober-clad young gentleman stand¬ 
ing so respectfully at Sir Nevil’s elbow glanced fur¬ 
tively down at the speaker while his muscular right 
hand, well hidden from view, clenched itself to a quiver¬ 
ing, murderous fist; yet when he spoke his voice was 
softly modulated: 

“And pray, sir, why ‘absurd’.P” 

“ Because she is so full of the devil and you of 
exalted virtue. Because, though circumstances neces¬ 
sitate you to serve me as librarian and private secre¬ 
tary, you boast an ancestry as proud and ancient as my 
own. And finally because this wild, unbroken filly, this 


How Loring Met Loring 67 

glorious termagant of mine hath no ancestry — the 
brat of a strolling player who, dying abandoned in her 
misery, left her by-blow to the parish — I say again — 
absurd! Forget the girl, think rather of your iron- 
fisted ancestor who charged with Coeur-de-Lion at Acre 

— or was it Jaffa? ” 

“ Nevertheless, sir,” answered Mr. Maulverer in his 

passionless voice, “ there is only one Anticlea-” 

“ Probably, Maulverer, though if you consult your 
classics you will read of another ... I named my 
fair virago after the ill-famed, ill-omened daughter of 
Autolycus who, as you may remember, was a robber 
and too-complaisant father — having regard to Sisy¬ 
phus, . . . and there were possibly others also before 
she married Laertes, King of Ithaca. She eventually 
killed herself ... a wild, passionate creature, I sus¬ 
pect, and singularly like my Anticlea.” 

“ Sir, there never was, there never will be another 
such as Anticlea.” 

“ Why, she is unique in these days I grant you, 
Maulverer, these days of prim feminine milk-and-water 
meekness. Anticlea is as irreverent, as fiercely un¬ 
restrained and lawless as a pagan goddess — and as 
handsome — and mine, my dear Maulverer. And mine 
she shall remain while I live 1 ” 

“ Then you refuse me permission to speak to her, sir 

— to urge my suit?” 

“Utterly and absolutely, Maulverer. She does not 
love you . . . she never ^ctfd I ” 

“None the less, sir, I h^a ventured-” 

“ Tush, Maulverer! Even suppose she returned your 
passion, Anticlea as a wife would be an anomaly; the 
very idea is preposterous I Besides, I may have other 
designs regarding her ... I am not too old to be 
stirred by beauty, Maulverer, nor so feeble as to be 
dead to the senses . . . the joy of dalliance may still 
possess an allure, Maulverer.” 




68 The Loring Mystery 

The tall young secretary slowly and softly recoiled 
from the speaker as from something inexpressibly 
loathsome, and he glanced swiftly towards the silver- 
hilted small-sword whose narrow blade glittered above 
the mantel, while his harfd, always hidden, became a 
fist again — there was even a gleam of moisture be¬ 
neath the hair at his temples; with his gaze yet upon 
that deadly blade he opened quivering lips as if to 
speak, vainly at first, it seemed, but when at last the 
words came, his voice sounded placid as usual: 

“ Sir, the love I bear your adopted daughter is-” 

“Daughter?” exclaimed Sir Nevil with a swift up- 
glance and, noting Maulverer’s compressed lip, his pale 
cheek, the direction of his gaze, he smiled and nodded: 
“ A dainty weapon, Maulverer, my grandfather killed 
his best friend with it for a creature far less wonderful 
than my Anticlea . . . and do not, pray, regard her 
as — my daughter, Maulverer, not my daughter — 
never that. And now, have the goodness to leave me, 
sir . . . those bailiff’s accounts — the estimates for the 
new stables, I would have them all ready by this 
evening.” 

“ They shall be ready, sir! ” answered the secretary, 
impassive as ever, and bowing sedately, he stepped 
softly from the room, closing the door silently behind 
him. 

Left alone. Sir Nevil reached an open volume from 
the small table beside him but sat with it on his knees, 
staring into the fire and smiling as one whose thoughts 
are wholly pleasant. From this smiling reverie he 
was aroused by the sudden reopening of the door and 
glanced round in some annoyance, expecting to see 
Mr. Maulverer. But, instead of that demurely elegant 
young man, he beheld one very different, one in worn 
boots and dusty clothes, whose dark head was swathed 
in a dirty bandage beneath which gleamed eyes strangely 
bright, steadfast and keen as his own. 



How Loring Met Loring 69 

“ Ah! ” murmured Sir Nevil, sinking back in his 
cushioned chair the better to survey this dusty and 
way-worn figure, “ A stranger, I think? ” Here he had 
recourse to his gold-mounted quizzing-glass, “Yes, 
upon my soul, a stranger! And unannounced! Highly 
irregular! And extremely grimy — hum! Pray, sir, 
favour me with the reason of this most unwarrantable 
intrusion — your name, sir?” 

The newcomer closed the door and, leaning his broad 
back against it, returned Sir NeviPs scrutiny with the 
same keen, steadfast look. 

“ You are Sir Nevil Loring, I presume ?” he en¬ 
quired. 

“ I am, sir! And what then ? ” 

“Why, then, sir, give me leave to tell you that I 
am David Loring, son of your elder brother Humphrey.” 

Sir Nevil leaned forward suddenly, his hands fast- 
gripped upon the arms of his chair, his eyes wide and 
staring; the book thudded to the floor all unheeded 
and for a moment was utter silence while eyes stared 
into eyes; then Sir Nevil sighed, his heavy lids drooped 
and, sinking back in his chair, he toyed idly with the 
ribbon of his glass. 

“ And so,” said he, “ you are my nephew, David 
Loring . . . you say! Gad’s my life — you astonish 
me! ” 

“ And you are my uncle Nevil, I perceive! M'y 
father has often described you . . . especially your eyes!” 

“ Ha! And my limp? ” 

“And your limp, sir.” 

“You know how I became a cripple, perhaps? ” 

“ I know that you forced my father to a duel, sir.” 

“Now as to yourself,” said Sir Nevil, “your some¬ 
what distressful-seeming self, I remark in you none of 
the Loring features.” 

“I take after my mother, sir.” 

“ Do you indeed! ” murmured Sir Nevil, scanning 


70 The Loring Mystery 

David through his glass again, “ Pardon me, but I 
think not ... No, your mother was a beautiful 
woman, I remember, and you . . . hum! But you have 
papers, of course, letters of identification, affidavits, 
your birth certificate! Come, your proofs, young 
man I ” 

“ I have none, sir.” 

“Unfortunate!” sighed Sir Nevil, gently. 

“ They were stolen from me by a pretended friend, 
one Joseph Masson, a mail I became intimate with 
aboard ship.” 

“ Stolen, sir.?^ ” questioned Sir Nevil. 

“ The man invited me to dine with him so soon as 
we reached London. I did so . . . where we dined I 
do not know except that the place overlooked the river 
. . . the wine was drugged . . . before my senses left 
me I taxed him with it ... we fought and Masson 
struck me down . . . robbed me of all I possessed, 
money, papers, the very ring off my finger . . . the 
snake-ring with emerald eyes, the ring which was an 
heirloom, and had been worn by my father^— and your 
father before him! You, sir, you must know it — the 
Loring snake-ring with the emerald eyes ? ” 

“A very moving story!” nodded Sir Nevil, “And 
where, pray, is the man Masson 

“Why, sir, I fully expected to find him here at 
Loring Chase or in the vicinity. I came hoping to 
unmask the impostor.” 

“And lo!” smiled Sir Nevil, “You find him wholly 
non-existent, unless — ha! ” 

“Well, sir.?” 

“ Unless he exists in — yourself! ” 

“ In me, sir! ” repeated David starting, “ In me, 
sir . . . .? ” 

“ Or you in him ! ” 

“ How, sir, do you dare ... do you venture to 
suggest-” 



I low lyoriiifj Met Loring 71 

“ We TiOrin,^H are daring arni ventiircHorne by nature, 
*t Ih a family trait! And, f)ray, liow am I to know you 
are not tbin man MaHHon liirnHelf? Indeed the more I 
think, the mort* likely it heeomeH, for 1 have been shown 
my nephew David l.oring’s dead body —— ” 

“ Imf)OHHihle, sir - ”• 

“ l*r;iy btt silent, sir . . . w(^ Lorings detest inter¬ 
ruptions of all and every kimJ! Now be good enough 
to he/tr nn; out: Sonit? mordhs sim*e I received a letter 
from my brother Humphrey in Virginia informing me 
Unit his son David was about to start for Eng¬ 
land ” 

“My fath<*r wrote you that letter on his death¬ 
bed ‘ ” 

“ Afioiit to s.t/irt for I^lngland by a cert/iin ship, that 
h(‘ would reach liOndon on such a date. I journeyed 
to liondon to give* him wcilcorne, f>ut very recently I 
le/irned from my lawyer that my ne|)hew David Loring 
Inid been found dead . . . floating in thelliver Thaiiies. 
So t here is nil ” 

“Dead?” gasped D/ivitI, lifting hand to l)row in the 
old dazed m/tuner. “Dead? Im[)ossil)le I I arn 
h(‘ 

“ I saw Uie body!” sighed Sir Nevil, “I gazed u{)on 
tin? [)Of)r mutilated corj)se! I read and examined all 
the paj)(‘rs and art,ich*s found uf)on the rennains. So 
there is an <‘ml of unfortunate nef)hew David, alas!” 

“No, no, sir I” cried David. “Indeed you are 
t(*rrihly deceived for I . . . f who sf)eak ... I am 
Dnvid I airing!” 

“ hiXtraordinary ! ” murmured Sir Nevil, busy with 
his glass again, “Astonishing! Your vehemence dis¬ 
tresses m<*. . . . W(‘ Lorings are never vehement — 
outwardly! A pinch of snutf, pray. You will find my 
box on th(‘ mantel, yonder,” Like one in a dream 
David crossed to Uk* high mantel, reached thence the 
liox and tendend It to Sir Nevil, who slowly extended 





72 The Loring Mystery 

his hand while his eyes, those keen, narrow eyes, 
focussed themselves on David’s fingers. 

“ Ah! ” he breathed softly, “ I . . . thank you, sir! ” 
Taking the box he threw himself back in his chair 
and, to David’s horrified surprise, burst into a fit of 
sudden, shrill laughter. 

“Why do you laugh, sir?” cried David, staring, 
“ Why — why ? ” 

“ Egad! ” gasped Sir Nevil, shaking his head, “ ’T is 
all so infernally — whimsically — perverse! So infin¬ 
itely— ironically — droll, by Heaven! Begone, sir, 
while you are safe . . . away, sir, while I laugh . . . 
stay not until I grow serious lest I summon my grooms 
and apprehend you for the . . . clumsy swindler you 
are.” 

“ Swindler, sir! ” exclaimed David. 

“And impudent impostor!” nodded Sir Nevil, his 
strange laughter still shaking him. “ Here surely is 
one of Fate’s little jokes . . , charmingly grotesque! 
Begone for the absurd and pitiful . . . rogue you are 
and . . . leave me to enjoy it.” 

But, instead of complying, David came a slow pace 
nearer, whereupon Sir Nevil, with a visible effort, 
checked his merriment to peer up at him, grimly 
challenging; and as they fronted each other thus, there 
was about both, in delicate, quivering nostril, down¬ 
trending, scornful mouth and in the set of the chin an 
air of latent power, of dominant will and cold calcula¬ 
tion; but here all likeness ended, for David was above 
the average height and his eyes were wide, grey, and 
black-lashed. 

“ By Heavens, sir,” he drawled, his pronunciation 
even more un-English than usual, “you are all — ay, 
more than my father described you ... he merely 
named you unbrotherly and vindictive-” 

The smooth, lazy voice seemed to infuriate Sir Nevil 
for, uttering an inarticulate cry, he leaned suddenly 



How Loring Met Loring 73 

towards the speaker and struck at him savagely with 
his cane; but the blow was eluded, the cane twitched 
I from his grasp, snapped across a dusty knee, and 
tossed into a corner. 

“ And now, sir, ” said David, “ seeing you turn me 
out discredited for lack of papers, seeing you dare 
name your elder brother’s son ‘ swindler ’ and ‘ im¬ 
postor’— fighting words in Virginia, sir — I will take 

my leave. But first-” 

Sir Nevil’s white hand darted towards the small 
escritoire at his elbow, but David’s hand was there 
first, had opened drawer and whipped up the small 
pistol concealed there, all in a moment; and now, turn¬ 
ing the weapon dexterously upon his forefinger, he 
bowed: ‘‘First, sir,” he continued, “permit me to tell 
you that I came to England with no thought of dis¬ 
possessing you of this property that is truly mine, but 
rather in the hope that the years had sweetened you 
and I might find in you one to honour as a nephew 
and revere as a son . . . which, now that I behold you, 
sir, seems vastly ridiculous !” Here David laughed 
softly, still turning the weapon on his finger, “As 
it is, sir, when I leave this, my ancestral roof . . . 
do not be apprehensive, sir, I’m familiar with fire¬ 
arms . . . when I leave this ancestral roof of mine, 
take notice that I will never rest until I return 
with the law behind me, and then, sir, expect no pity. 

For mercy begetteth mercy and you have never-” 

Here he paused suddenly and turned, as the door 
opened, to confront Mr. Maulverer, and as he did so, 
the pistol, spinning upon his forefinger, was suddenly 
arrested, its threatening muzzle directed between Mr. 
Maulverer’s widely opened eyes. 

“ Pray come in, sir ! ” said David in the same un¬ 
hurried manner, “ Step in, sir, and trouble yourself to 
close the door! Perfectly! ” 

“ Maulverer,” said Sir Nevil, helping himself daintily 





74 The Loring Mystery 

to a pinch of snuiF, “ pray observe this person . . . 
regard him well. I sit in jeopardy of my life at his 
hands, as you see. I shall go in such jeopardy hence¬ 
forth. So be good enough to take particular note of 
his personal appearance, Maulverer, for if at any time 
in the future anything untoward should befall me 
... at any time, Maulverer, in any place, you will 
know what manner of rogue my slayer is. Now, pray 
open the door and suffer this would-be murderer to 
depart ... we will permit him to creep forth as he 
crept in! Only henceforth, Maulverer, see the dogs are 
unchained o’ nights, the doors and windows secure. 
And now have the kindness to stir the fire.” 

“ Gentlemen, I salute you ! ” said David and bowed. 
“As for you, sir, pray remark that despite your dogs, 
your bolts and bars, I shall return sooner or later and 
then, sir, shall be vast change at Loring Chase! In 
earnest of which, I wiU make bold to take this with 
me.” And thrusting the pistol into the bosom of his 
dusty, weather-worn coat, he bowed and stepped lightly 
out of the room, closing the door behind him. 

“ Good heavens, sir 1 ” exclaimed Mr. Maulverer, his 
natural placidity somewhat ruffled, “will you suffer 
the fellow to get away scot-free- 

“ Most gladly, Maulverer.” 

“Why, then, sir — who—what is he.?” 

“Did you not hear his wild declaration.?” 

“ Not a word, sir 1 ” 

“Ha! ” smiled Sir Nevil. “And who is he, you ask.? 
Maulverer, he’s one who fancies himself deeply wronged 
— by me. He is — alas, these wild oats, Maulverer! 
That young man represents himself the outcome of 
a . . . youthful indiscretion. Egad, how fatally true 
the old saying that one’s sins will find one out and, 
sooner or later, come home to roost! And now, Maul¬ 
verer, I ’ll to the library, pray send Thomas Yaxley to 
me there — at once! ” 



CHAPTER XI 

Further Concerning Him and Her 

j Meanwhile young David Loring went his way, light- 
j treading and with head aloft, despite throbbing temples, 
j for the cloud was lifted from his brain at last, the night¬ 
mare horrors that had haunted him were vanished, and, 
confident in himself and his manhood, he could have 
whistled although so mightily hungry. All at once he 
! stopped, for before him was the indirect cause of this, 
the red-maned Amazon of the big grey horse; since to 
i her, the horse, and his fall he, rightly or wrongly, 
I attributed his recovery. 

I She was leaning to peer down into the stream where 
! it formed a deep and stilly pool beneath the alders, 

' and, unwilling to disturb her, he would have gone his 
way but at that moment she glanced round and saw him. 

“Well?” she questioned, imperiously. 

“Evil ! ” answered David, “ I have seen — him ! ” 

“ Ah — and he turned you out ? ” 

“ He did so, lady.” 

“ And you — go ! ” quoth she, with red lips scornful, 
“ You run before his frown — like all the rest! ” 

“Yes, mam, only — I shall come back.” 

“When?” 

“ Sooner or later.” 

“Ah — bah!” she cried, “You never will . . . you 
are afraid!” 

“Do you think that?” he enquired softly. 

At this she condescended to look at him again, and 
beholding his grim-smiling, shapely mouth, his wide, 
bright, grey eyes, she hesitated and, being a woman. 





76 The Loring Mystery 

immediately shifted her ground and questioned him 
anew. 

“ Did he glare at you . . . strike at you ? ” 

“ Both, lady.” 

“Then you saw his . . . eyes?” she questioned, 
whispering. 

“ Yes, I saw his eyes . . . eyes of a devil ! Hate 
is there, and cruelty, and cunning, and mockery, and 
lust . . . cold and passionless! And you are a woman 
. . . very young . . . and beautiful. Take this! ” 
And speaking, he drew the pistol from his bosom. 

“ Why — why, that thing is his ! ” she exclaimed. 

“ Was, lady! Pray take it . . . Many beautiful 
young ladies carry such in my country.” 

“ Where is ‘ your ’ country? ” 

“ Virginia.” 

“ Where is that ? ” 

“ A long ways from here . . . Pray, won’t you take 
it ? ” 

“ No — no! I am not afraid of him — or any man! ” 

“ But he is no ordinary man.” 

“What matter? I do not fear him!” she repeated, 
“ I never did fear him, and . . . besides-” 

“Well, lady?” 

“ You shall see! ” And, turning her back, she 
stooped and swinging round, showed upon her pink, 
open palm a small silver-hafted knife or stiletto. “ A 
gipsy woman sold it to me,” she explained, “it is 
supposed to be a charm against all dangers.” 

“ Indeed,” he nodded gravely, “ and so it might be 
— properly used.” 

“ Why do you suggest such — horrors ? ” she ex¬ 
claimed angrily. 

“Why do you carry such a thing, lady? A pistol 
were better.” 

“Who are you?” she demanded, when she had re¬ 
stored the dagger to its hidden resting-place. 



Concerning Him and Her 77 

“ My name is David/’ he answered. 

“ David — what ? ” 

“ Nemo, lady.” 

‘‘ It sounds foreign.” 

“ It is foreign.” 

“I am glad my horse didn’t injure you — badly.” 

“ Thank you, mam. Also you left me five shillings.” 
“Did I? O well ... I thought — I — I didn’t 
know you were — O!” she exclaimed angrily and 
stamped spurred foot at herself. 

“ I thank you, none the less, lady.” 

“ I tell you I did n’t know you were a . . . you 
did n’t . . . you don’t look like a gentleman - ” 

“ Don’t I ? ” said David, and smiled suddenly, where¬ 
upon she knit her brows and studied him a moment. 

“ Yes ! ” said she at last, “ Yes ! I beg your pardon, 
and to make amends you may return my poor five 
shillings, it is all the money I happen to possess for 
the moment.” 

“ Lady, it was all the money I happened to possess 
at the moment and I threw it away.” 

“Threw it away indeed! Such pride was wickedly 
improvident and — ridiculous! ” 

“ Pride usually is, lady.” 

“ It is very strange that I should be talking so 
familiarly to a stranger.” 

“ And very kind! ” he added. 

“ You will forget — quite forget all the wild things I 
said to you, in the wood, concerning — him!” 

“ They are forgotten, mam.” 

“ Now go, before Yaxley sees you.” 

“Who is he?” 

“The head-keeper ... an ogreish animal.” 

“I should like to see him, lady . . . ogres are 
rare in my country.” 

“What arc you?” she enquired. 

“ A solitary wanderer.” 




78 The Loring Mystery 

“ And a very strange one, I think.” 

“ How strange, lady? ” 

“ I have never met anyone like you before.” 

“ And never will again! ” he answered gravely, 
‘‘ For I have lately come up out of hell.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ That, but for you, I might have crawled miserably 
to a miserable end . . . Will you give me your hand? ” 

Unhesitating she obeyed and for a moment they stood 
thus looking into each other’s eyes: 

“ Good-bye! ” said she, her voice somewhat kinder. 

“ Please, mam,” said David a little diffidently, “ will 
you tell me your name ? ” 

“ Anticlea,” she answered. “ It’s a hateful name! 
He gave it to me because it is the name of a miserable 
creature who sinned and suffered and died hundreds 
of years ago ...” 

“ And yet it is a beautiful name, I think ! ” said 
David, “Yes, a beautiful name . . . Some day, lady, 
soon or late, I shall come back, and I hope in 
better case,” said he in his soft accents. “ But whether 
or no, I shall always remember you gratefully — 
reverently. When I was a little lad my mother taught 
me to say this prayer: 

Be you awake, or be you sleeping. 

May angels have you in their keeping. 

So I leave you with my mother’s prayer to — shield 
you from all things evil.” 

Then stooping suddenly, he pressed his lips to her 
hand and strode away leaving her staring after him 
like one in a dream. 


CHAPTER XII 


|: Giveth Some Description of a Man with a 
: Grievance 

: It was a small, snug inn remote from the highway 
I and shaded by three tall trees; a cheery place whose 
I twinkling lattices blinked in friendly sort, whose hos¬ 
pitable door gaped wide upon a clean, stone-flagged 
passage, and with a couple of wooden benches in its 
kindly shade to allure the wearied traveller. 

Just now these benches were unoccupied; no human 
being was to be seen, no sound troubled the drowsy 
quiet save the distant clank of a well-bucket; the place 
seemed to doze in the pleasant afternoon sun. 

Therefore David stretched himself upon the nearest 
bench and stared idly at the signboard above his head, 
a weather-beaten escutcheon whereon, in half-obliter¬ 
ated lettering, he made out the words: 

THE REARING HORSE. 

Jno. Yokes. 

. . . and above this, a hazy semblance of what pur¬ 
ported to be that spirited, high-mettled quadruped, 
but so blurred with stress, of time and weather that it 
might have been anything in the animal kingdom from 
hippopotamus to rabbit; though, to be sure, it reared 
with a pertinacity that neither age nor fading colours 
could abate. 

So David, sprawling upon the weather-beaten bench, 
stared up at the weather-dimmed sign, but with his mind 
busied upon many other and vastly different things; 
a hurry of thoughts concerning such matters as: red- 


8 o The Loring Mystery 

gold hair . . . Sir Nevil’s sneering smile and de-J 
moniac eyes ... his own present destitution . . . the; 
wonder of his so suddenly recovered memory . . . his 
desperate fight for life, drugged and but half-conscious, 
with his would-be murderer Masson . . . the terrible 
blow that had struck him down . . . the plunge into 
icy waters which had roused him to a last fierce effort 
for life . . . the choking mud . . . the keen-eyed 
Shrig , . . the kindly, one-handed, gigantic Corporal 
Dick ... Yes, he remembered it all, thank God! 
And — she had red hair 1 And he had never liked red 
hair in man or woman . . . And yet — her eyes were 
wonderful . . . brown! And she was shaped like a 
Greek statue — but . . . red hair! 

Here, chancing to turn his head, he became aware of 
one who watched him from the shade of an adjacent , 
tree, a broad-shouldered man, roughly clad, who leaned i 
upon a staff, staring at him from beneath shaggy i 
eye-brows, a very formidable-looking fellow, unkempt, ^ 
haggard, and dusty with travel. Nevertheless, with 
that easy good-fellowship peculiar to him, David .j 
beckoned and hailed the man in his soft, drawling ; 
accents: ■ 

‘‘You look kind o’ spent, friend. Come and sit 
down with me. . . . I’ve been weary, too.” 

“Sit with ye, is it?” exclaimed the man harshly: 

“ God love ye, chum, ye’re the first to say a friendly 
word to me since I set fut in England.” 

“Are you a stranger also? ” enquired David, making 
room for the other beside him. 

“ Ay and no! ” answered the traveller, and sinking 
upon the bench wearily he sat awhile, chin on breast, 
staring before him beneath scowling brows; and now 
David saw he was younger than he had thought; it 
seemed to him that the haggard lines on the man’s 
grim visage and the grizzled hair above the scowling 
brows were the work of other things than time. 


A Man with a Grievance 8i 

“Pray, how old are you?” he enquired. 

“Forty-one !” answered the other. “And I look 
sixty . . . and small wonder! ” 

“You have suffered?” 

“ Suffered?” cried the man hoarsely. “Ay, ye may 
put it at that, chum, ye may put it at that!” Here 
the speaker sighed and passed a scarred, toil-worn 
hand over his face and brow with a weary, despondent 
gesture. “You was a-lookin’ at th’ old sign, yonder!” 
said he suddenly, pointing upward with his staff. 

“Was I?” said David, wondering. “Yes, maybe 
I was. What of it?” 

“ I minds it bein’ painted, chum.” 

“ It must have looked very different then! ” said 
David. 

“ Ay, as different as — I did . . . Ah, that ’ere 
’orse were summat to look at in them days — though, 
mind ye, the painter-chap made ’im a bit too round 
in the barrel mebbe, an’ too long in the cannons, 
p’r’aps — but then ... ’is mane an’ tail! An’ the 
way ’e reared an’ pranced! Lord love ye, ’twas a 
wonder ’e didn’t rear ’isself clean out o’ the picter! 
. . . That was twenty-five year ago . . . Tom Larkin 
’ad the place then.” 

“ Twenty-five years is a long time! ” said David. 

“Ay,” nodded the man, “’tis longer than that — 
sometimes! ” 

“And you lived here, once?” 

“Bom ’ere. You’ve never ’eard the name Bowker, 
’ave ye . . . Ben Bowker?” 

“ Never.” 

“Don’t live ’ereabouts, then?” 

“No. I’m a stranger — from overseas.” 

“ Wheer away? ” 

“ Virginia in America.” 

“ Don’t know it.” 

“Yet you have lived abroad also, friend?” 



82 The Loring Mystery 

“ Fifteen long year, chum! Austrayley . . . Botany 
Bay — that’s me!” 

“Ah!” exclaimed David. “You mean . . 

“I mean,” said the man, scowling on the distance 
again. “ I mean as I’m a ‘ lag ’ ”... a time-expired 
convict . . . attempted murder — that’s me! ” Here 
was silence awhile: “Well,” he exclaimed at last, “Why 
don’t ye get up an’ go ? Why don’t ye leave me — me 
as was Convict Two ’Undred and One, six months ago? 
Why don’t ye make ’aste away from me — like all the 
rest of ’em?” 

“Because,” answered David, “had I been sufficiently 
tempted, one way or another, I might have been a con^ 
vict also.” 

At this, the man, turning to scowl, opened his eyes 
to stare instead, in dumb amazement; then his grim 
lips twitched and bowing his head upon clenched fist 
he sat gazing blankly before him awhile. 

“ I was cast for transportation . . . fifteen years! ” 
he mumbled at last. 

“ Then you have paid the penalty,” said David, 
“ and should start life anew-” 

“ Not me ! ” grumbled the man fiercely. “ Not me 
. . . my life’s done ... or soon will be ! Let me 
but do what I came back to do and ... I’m finished 
— ay, finished! They can do what they like wi’ this 
’ere carcass o’ mine — then! But first ... ay — 

first-” The speaker’s haggard face was suddenly 

convulsed as by a spasm and he wrenched at the 
neckerchief he wore, tugging at it as though it were 
strangling him. 

“Friend Bowker,” said David in his soft, pleasant 
voice, “tell me about your trouble-” 

“No !” snarled Bowker. “No — not me ! Why 
should the likes o’ me trust the likes o’ you ? ” 

“Because I’m a friendless wanderer like yourself.” 

“ You look more like one o’ — them! ” 





A Man with a Grievance 83 

“ One of whom ? ” 

“ The — gentry, dammem! ” 

“And yet, I’m truly as friendless, as destitute as 
yourself, Ben Bowker, more so, I guess.” 

“ What — you.^ ” growled the man bitterly. 

“Indeed !” nodded David. “Tor I’ve neither food 
to eat nor money to buy any.” 

“ What — are ye hungry, then ? ” 

“ Damnably! ” sighed David. 

“ ’Ungry enough to eat along o’ Number Two 
’Undred and One.?” 

“ Try me! ” said David. 

Scowling, Ben Bowker arose and strode into the little 
inn whence he presently issued bearing a tray whereon 
was a crusty loaf, a thick slab of cheese, lettuce, onions 
and two large tankards topped by creamy foam. 

And thus, seated in the pleasant sunshine, David 
Loring broke bread with ex-convict Two Hundred and 
One, and side by side they began to eat, nor did they 
speak until loaf and cheese were utterly demolished; 
then lifting his half-emptied tankard to his gloomy 
companion, David nodded cheerily: 

“ Happier days ! ” said he. 

“No !” growled the man, shaking his head. “There 
ain’t no ’appy days for me, chum — there never will 
be ... ye see — I’ve lost ’er . . . my little Nan!” 

“ Ah,” said David gently, “ you mean . . . dead ? ” 

“Worse!” growled the ex-convict. “Worse! 
She’s ’opeless, mate, adrift in the world somewheers, 
and I can’t find no trace of her. Looked ’igh an’ low I 
’ave . . . questioned all them as ever knowed ’er, ay, 
even ’er old mother, pore soul! Tramped the country 
lookin’ for ’er, I ’ave, ever since I come back. . . . 
Some says she’s dead and others say she’s overseas, 
and some tell as she’s ... in London . . . my little 
Nan-! ” 

“ Then why not seek her in London ? ” 





84 The Loring Mystery 

“ I ’ave, chum, I ’ave! But London’s a big place 
. . . I’ve lost ’er! So — ^ I Ve come back to th’ old 
village to finish my job.” 

“What sort of job.?” 

“Just a . . . job, chum. A job as nobody can’t 

do for me-” Here the spasm shook him again and 

when next he spoke his voice sounded even hoarser : 
“Ye see,” he explained, “ we was to ha’ been married, 

’er and me, fifteen year ago-” here he paused as if 

choking, then continued in a strangely hushed yet 
passionate eagerness: “A rare good an’ sweet lass 
was my Nan, only — a sight too pretty. . . . Them 
was the happy days, chum, but they didn’t last — not 
they! Bit by bit she began to change . . . grew kind 
o’ timid-like, scared, chum, scared o’ me, of me, chum! 
I used to find ’er cryin’ fit to break a man’s ’eart, I 
did . . . would n’t tell me ’er trouble — no! But . . . 
I found out at last and one evening I took the old 
bagnet as used to ’ang above the chimbley and went 
through the coppice yonder to find and kill the fine 
gentleman as had murdered our ’appiness. . . . And 
find ’im I did . . . damn ’im! But ’e were too quick 

for me. . . . Shot me ’e did and ’is keepers came 

running. . . . Well, I’d been a peaceable chap wi’ 
a good character but they transported me . . . fifteen 
year . . . Botany Bay. . . . But arter I’d done 

three year I grew wild for a sight o’ my little Nan 

and Old England and I got away . . . nigh killed 
two of the guards, but get away I did . . . reached 
the coast starving and was give away by ... a chap 
as sold milk! So they dragged me back ... set me 
in the chain-gang, they did. . . . That turned me 
into a ragin’ devil and I’d be draggin’ my chains yet, 
mebbe, only I saved the Governor’s life . . . ’e made 
me his ‘trusty’ ... I told ’im my story and . . . 
well, ’ere I be . . . back again arter . . . fifteen 
years.” 




A Man with a Grievance 85 

‘'And what now, friend?” questioned David, his 
voice gentler than ever. 

“No matter! ” 

“And — your Nan?” 

“ But I tell ye she’s gone . . . lost-” 

“ Then why not come back with me to London 
. . . we will seek her together; four eyes are better 
than two ! Come, what do you say, Ben Bowker?” 

“I says NO! If I can’t find my lass I know wheer 
I can find — ’im 1 ” 

“You mean your enemy?” 

“ Ay — ’im I ” 

“ And when you do find him — how then ? ” 

“No matter!” 

“ In my country,” said David frowning, “ he would 

not live very long-” 

“ ’E won’t in this ! ” muttered Bowker fiercely. 

“ But then,” continued David, “ the English law is 

a much stricter, sterner code than ours-” 

“ What do I care for laws ! ” answered the ex-convict. 
“Let me meet this man once more — ah, just once 
and the law can do what it likes wi’ me! Ay, ay, let 
me finish the job I began fifteen year ago and I’ll 
swing j ’yful — j ’yful! ” And in the speaker’s twitching 
features and suppressed tones was a dreadful purpose 
and the more terrible for his very quietude. 

“And this man who wronged you so bitterly lives 
close by, does he?” said David. 

“ I never said so! ” growled the ex-convict sus- 
piwusly. 

‘‘Nor have you told me his name,” said David 
softly, “ and yet were I to make a guess it would 

be . . . Nevil Loring-” 

Almost as he uttered the words, Ben Bowker had 
him in sudden grip and was hissing fierce questions: 

“Who are ye — who are ye as knows so much? 
Who . . . what are ye ? ” 






86 The Loring Mystery j 

“ One who hates Sir Nevil scarcely less than you | 

do-” I 

“ Fine words — fine words! ” panted Bowker. “ And | 
so soon as my back’s turned you ’ll be off to tip him j 
the office ... to warn ’im as Ben Bowker’s home 
again to square accounts.” 

“Not I!” answered David quietly, “So loose my | 
throat!” j 

“ If I thought as you meant to queer my game-” -j 

“ I don’t 1 ” said David. ^ 

“’Ow can I be sure o’ that.? God . . . but I’ve ^ 

a mind to choke the life out o’ ye and mak’ sure-” 

“ You could n’t! ” said David. 

“O . . . couldn’t I.What d’ye mean.” j 

“I should kill you first.” ; 

“ Ah — would ye so-” 

“ Indeed I should.” ’' 

David’s voice was soft as usual, but reading the 1 
menace in his eyes, Ben Bowker slowly relaxed his grip t 
and drew back, but crouched and quivering for sudden • 
action, a desperate creature with eyes fierce and watch¬ 
ful and brawny fingers twitching. 

“ What’s y’r game ? ” he demanded. 

“This!” answered David, showing the pistol he • 
had grasped unseen. “Now mark me, Ben Bowker! 

I shall not trouble to warn Sir Nevil because he is 
very well able to take sufficient care of his most evil 
self, but I would rather warn you who are the better 
man. And I would warn you that in England whoso 
sheds another man’s blood, no matter how great his 
justification, is a bloody criminal in the eyes of the law 

and must surely die a felon’s shameful death-” 

“And what o’ that?” retorted Bowker. “Let ’em 

’ang me! What ’ave I to live for-? ” 

“ Your Nan-” 

“ She’s gone . . . lost . . . ay, dead, for aught ' 










A Man with a Grievance 87 

“ Well, and if she is dead, friend, you must die, too, 
some day, and better go to her unstained by this evil 
blood-” 

“Bah! Ye’re talkin’ like a damned parson . . . 
I ’ad enough o’ them in gaol I If my Nan’s lost — she’s 
lost, and if she’s dead—she’s dead, and there’s an end. 
Anyway, I can’t find ’er, so I ’ll make an end of—’im, ay, 
I will 1 And if I’m for the topping-cheat arterwards, 
well. I’ll dance the Noogate Hornpipe as brisk as any 
other unfort’nate. So you go your way and I ’U go 
mine and mum’s the word I And if so be as you ’re 
destitoot, why here’s for ye, chum!” Saying which, 
Bowker drew forth a net-purse from which he extracted 
two guineas. 

“No, no !” exclaimed David. “No, no, Ben Bowker 
— indeed I could n’t! ” 

“Couldn’t? O and why not? Is it because I’ve 
been a convict? Why, damme, the money was come- 
by honest! ’T is money I worked for, years ago, 
money I put by for my weddin’ ... I tell ye — Stow 
it, pal, stow your bene — the cuffin’s dicking ! ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ Sit still . . . don’t look round! I mean as there’s 
a queer cove twigging of us. Now is it me he’s a-watch- 
ing or only you? It ain’t neither ... he’s a-watch- 
ing someone be’ind ’im. All’s bowmon, pal, it’s only a 
peddler.” 

Glancing round, David beheld the Peddler in question 
approaching, a shortish, broad-shouldered man who 
sported such a proportion of beard and whiskers as 
left little of his features to be seen except a pair of very 
bright eyes; about his neck hung a variety of scarves, 
laces, ribbons, imitation gold chains and the like, 
samples evidently of the wares he bore in the bundle 
upon his back. 

Being come up to them, he halted, touched finger 
to eyebrow and saluted them in jovial, hearty tones: 



88 The Loring Mystery 

“ Arternoon gents, an’ a werry fine arternoon it be! ^ 
Wot d’ye lack, .gents? An ’andsome neckerchief in j 
silk or cotton? Or vhat d’ye say to a pair o’ laces, a ^ 
penknife with an edge like a razor, a brush, an’ shall 
ve say a comb? Come, gents!” I 

“ Nothing, thank you,” said David, while Ben Bowker } 
merely scowled. 

‘‘Wot—^nothink?” enquired the Peddler, no whit 
abashed. “ Here’s finger-rings, brooches an’ neck .i 
chains as looks like gold, feels like gold an’ may be gold 
for all I know, and remarkable cheap, being only 
eighteenpence — a bob, well — say a tanner I Wot, no ? 
Why, then, wot about an ’at, young master — an ’at as 
vill roll or fold an’ light as a feather ... a good felt 
cady to keep your tibby from the sun ... I’ve a nice 
soft ’at as will fit you to an ’air-” 

“ And I have no money! ” said David. ^ 

“01” quoth the Peddler, “That alters the case,: 
don’t it? No money, no ’at and wersey-wicey — vich 
is a pity seeing as you needs an ’at considering your 
damaged tibby.” 

“ I ’ll buy one I ” growled Ben Bowker, thrusting 
hand into pocket. 

“ Spoke like a prince, sir, and right y’are, my lord! ” 
cried the Peddler, unslinging his pack whence he ex¬ 
tracted a shapeless something which by sundry slaps 
on his thigh, and dexterous pulls and twists, he 
transformed into a soft felt hat, grey of colour and 
ornamented by a broad white ribbon. 

“ Look at it! ” he exclaimed, holding it out upon . 
his fist. “ Here’s an ’at as is an ’at as can’t be beat and 
seldom ek’alled nohow and novhere-” 

“ Though somewhat conspicuous, perhaps 1 ” smiled 
David. 

“ As conspicuous as ever vas! ” nodded the Peddler. 

“ ’Ere’s an ’at fit for the Prince Regent ’isself! There ‘ 
ain’t another like it in all Sussex — no, not in all Eng- 




A Man with a Grievance 89 

land at the price — and dirt cheap at fi’-bob . . . ’arf 
a crown . . . two shillings , . . say eighteenpence! ” 
The ex-convict, scowling blacker than ever, paid 
over the money, whereupon the Peddler nodded cheerily, 
pocketed the coins and, catching up his pack, vanished 
into the inn. Then Ben Bowker tossed the hat towards 
David: 

“ There y’are! ” he growled. “ Tak’ it or leave it! ” 
And, rising abruptly, turned to go; but David rose 
also and stayed him with a gesture: 

“ Friend Bowker,” said he, putting on the hat, 
“ I’ll take this and wear it gratefully. And, because 
I’ve conceived a great liking for you, I ’ll borrow 
your two guineas — if you ’re still minded to lend them 

— hoping to meet and repay you soon-” 

“ ’S all right, chum, ’s all right, never trouble! ” said 
Ben Bowker in changed voice, pressing the money 
upon David with an eagerness that seemed to him 
I almost pathetic. “ S’ long chum . . . and . . . good 
, luck! ” 

i ‘‘ Good-bye! ” said David, gripping the ex-convict’s 
I work-roughened hand. ‘‘ Good-bye, Ben Bowker and 
I hope for your own sake that when you find your 
Nan, in this world or the next, you may be as guiltless 

of blood as you are to-day-” 

Now at this, Bowker snatched his hand from David’s 
i clasp and clenched it slowly while his scowling gaze 
I sought afar the gables of Loring Chase bowered amid 
I trees; then, muttering inarticulately, he turned and 
i strode away. 






CHAPTER XIII 


TELiiS HOW Loring Met Loring for the Second 
Time 


Long after Ben Bowker had trudged out of sight, 
David sat chinking the coins softly in his hand. 

With this money he might reach London speedily and 
in comfort, there to seek out the man Jasper Shrig, ' 
the Bow Street Officer who had already befriended him 
and who might put him in the way of lawfully estab¬ 
lishing his identity . . . He would catch the mail . 

Yes, it should be London and Jasper Shrig; but first 
he must eat. 

Having thus determined his immediate course of 
action, David arose and stepped into the cosy tap-^ 
room of the inn, a place deserted at this hour save^ 
for a smoke-frocked patriarch who snored gently 
in a corner, but who now, upon David’s entrance, 
opened his eyes, blinked and sat up broad awake in a 
moment. 

“ Goo’ arternoon, young sir! ” he croaked. “ You ’ll 
be wantin’ a drop o’ summat, sure-ly ? ” 

David admitted the fact, whereupon the old man 
thumped the floor with his stick and nodded trium 
phantly: 

“I knowed it!” quoth he. “Ah, an’ wot’s more I, 
can see as you’ve got a koind ’eart which Oi be glad on,1 
fur it du so ’appen as oi be wantin’ a drop o’ summat,^ 
tu . . . Tom — O Tom 1 ” and the Patriarch rapped 1 
louder than ever; at which summons appeared a rotund,^ 
bullet-headed man who beamed, nodded and yawned, t 

“Wot now. Gaffer?” he enquired. 





A Second Meeting 91 

i “ Beer, o’ course, Tom! A pint for that theer young 
igen’leman an’ a pint for Oi—^an’ that theer young 
gen’leman to pay.” 

“ ’Oo says so, Gaffer.?^ ” 

“ Why, that theer young gen’leman’s kind ’eart fur 
sure ... a ‘drop o’ summat mellerin’ fur pore old 
Jole,’ it do say, plain as plain! Now, don’t it, young 
maaster.?” 

“Why, surely!” laughed David, laying down one 
of his .guineas. “ Also if you have any cold meat, land¬ 
lord, ham, say, or beef — pray bring it-” 

“’Am, Tom—O, ’am!” piped the Patriarch,esctatic. 
“ Oi could eat ’am for a hower, I could. Theer ain’t no 
fodder as Oi enj’ys so much as ’am, except beef an’ 
mutton, or a chicken — though a bit o’ fish comes grate¬ 
ful-” 

“ ’Ark to ’im, sir! ” quoth the landlord, stifling an¬ 
other yawn. “ And ’im so old-” 

“ Beer, Tom! ” cried the old man, thumping with 
his stick again. “ You ’eered wot the young gen’leman 
said — beer an’ beef an’ ’am, an’ plenty on ’em — ’ungry 
Oi be!” 

“’Ungry!” repeated the landlord. “Nobody never 
knowed you nothing else. Gaffer! Sir, ’e du be for ever 
a-muzzlin’ or a-guzzlin’-” 

“ That be the best o’ innards the likes o’ mine! ” 
nodded the Patriarch. “ Stretches an’ stretches, they 
du — noble! ” 

“ Some day you ’ll stretch ’em too fur. Gaffer, so sure 
as your name be Jole Bybrook, an’ then — well . . . 
summat ’ll ’appen ’orrid! ” 

“ ’Old your tongue, Tom, an’ bring in they vittles — 
sharp! ” 

The which being July brought, down sat David and 
the Patriarch and forthwith fell to with hearty ap¬ 
petite; indeed, the aged Mr. Bybrook plied knife and 
fork with such amazing energy that David paused at 






92 The Loring Mystery 

last to watch him with amused surprise; whereupon Mr. , 
Bybrook suspended action long enough to prolfer the | 
following explanation: | 

‘‘Ye see, I wur a sextant, I wur! ” 

“ Indeed? ” said David wondering. 

“ Ah! And my fayther ’e wur a sextant afor’ Oi, an’ 
my b’y’s a sextant arter Oi! ” Having said which, the _ 
Patriarch went on eating faster than ever, while the 
sleepy landlord yawned and watched. ' 

And in a while David arose and, bidding them good- 
day, stepped forth of the “Rearing Horse” Inn and 
set off London-wards. 

He had gone but a little way, however, when he 
heard the squealing whinny of a horse, the pounding of 
flying hoofs, saw a great animal leap a gate upon his 
left to burst through the opposite hedge and vanish. 

Now, recognizing this riderless animal, David vaulted 
the gate and hurried across the meadow beyond, star¬ 
ing about him as he ran; and thus presently espied 
what he expected yet dreaded to see. 

Upon the verge of a wood she lay face down across 
the fallen branch which, it seemed, had swept her from 
the saddle. Awed by the silence and dreadful im¬ 
mobility of this shapely body he knelt and with rever¬ 
ent hand ordered the rumpled folds of her long habit 
and then, tenderly as might be, raised that fallen 
head. ... A pallid face, paler by contrast with the 
black brows and drooping lashes so oddly out of keep¬ 
ing with her red hair; full, shapely lips drained of their 
vivid colour; delicate nostrils which, as he watched, 
quivered to a faint-drawn breath. . . . Thank God, she 
lived! She must have air. . . . With clumsy fingers he 
loosed the fastenings at her neck, disclosing a throat 
smoothly round and of that snowy whiteness peculiar to 
red hair. Was she stiU breathing? By Heaven — no! 

. . . Thank Heaven — yes! . . . Well, then, she must ‘ 
have water — immediately . . . water was the thing. 


A Second Meeting 93 

of course! Holding her thus cradled in his arms he 
’ glanced wildly around and, as fortune would have it, 
heard the welcome ripple of a brook amid the adjacent 
green. Raising her with mighty effort he got to his feet 
> and bore her into the wood, treading slowly and with 
i infinite care until he came at last to a little stream 
which flowed murmurous in the shadow of a great tree 
whose spreading branches made a kind of bower. Here 
j he laid her down and, filling his cupped hands from the 
I stream, laved her head, her pale face, her throat and 
! hands with the life-giving water until at last, to his 
infinite relief, she sighed, shivered and opened eyes big 
i with wonder. 

“Are you better?” he enquired gently. 

I For a moment she stared uncomprehendingly, then, 

I wrinkling her brow, shivered again. 

“ What do you want? . . . What am I doing-? ” 

“ You were knocked from your horse,” he explained. 

“ Yes ... I remember . . .” 

“ Are you in pain . . . ? ” he enquired, leaning over 
her, “ Are you hurt? ” 

“No . . . not yet!” she answered and clung to him 
suddenly, hiding her face against him like a frightened 
child. . . . David could feel her trembling as she lay. 

“I — I feared you were — were dead . . .” he 
stammered. 

“Feared?” she repeated, pressing to him closer yet, 
“ Oh, there are worse things than Death . . . Death 
is not vile . . . Death is freedom. I should be happier 

— better, dead!” 

“You?” he exclaimed. “You — so young? There 

— there! What troubles you, child? ” 

“I am . . . afraid . . . afraid!” she whispered. 

“Of —of him, child?” 

“ Of myself! And I am . . . lonely, so lonely! ” 

“ Tell me,” he urged gently, “ Pray tell me your 
trouble.” 




94 The Loring Mystery ; 

At this, she drew away from him to lean back against ^ 
the great tree and view him sullen-eyed. ' 

“You needn’t have wet my hair!” she exclaimed 
petulantly. J 

“ Forgive me, but you . . . you needed water-” 

“ And you have soaked me I ” | 

“ But’t was well meant, mam! ” | 

“ And . . . my neck . . . I ” | 

“ You needed air, lady 1 ” J 

Here, having dried face and neck as well as she might | 
on a diminutive handkerchief, she rebuttoned the bosom I 
of her habit, frowning at him meanwhile. 

“How did I come here in the wood?” she demanded. ' 
“ In my arms, lady.” , 

“ I wonder you were able 1 Was I heavy? ” 

“ Extremely, mam! ” 

At this she scowled blacker than ever. 

“Then indeed, sir, you must be stronger than you 
look.” 

“ Yes, mam. And I would humbly suggest that 

you give up riding vicious horses-” 

“My Brutus is not vicious. . . . And if he is, so 
much the better.” ^ 

“ He might have killed you-” | 

“ ’T is pity he did n’t! ” 

“ Hush, mam! If you had indeed been killed-” 

“ ’T would have been your fault, sir! ” 

“Mine?” gasped David, “Pray how in the world, 
mam-” 

“You roused the devil in — in him . . . Sir Nevil, 
and he . . . Well, I only ride Brutus when I’m driven 
to it! , , . What did you do so to madden and enrage 
Sir Nevil?” 

“ Nothing I regret, lady.” 

“ He is in one of his cold furies I Everyone fears him 
in his cold fit . . . everyone but me! The sooner you 
go away from Loring the better for yourself . . . You 








A Second Meeting 95 

took a pistol from him, didn’t you — the one you 
showed me? ” 

“ Yes, mam.” 

“ How — tell me how.” 

“ I happened to . . . reach it first.” 

“ So you did not steal it, then? ” 

“Well, I took it, lady, to . . . prevent any chance 
of an accident.” 

“You mean he threatened you with it? You mean 
he-” 

“Was not quite quick enough, mam.” 

“ I’m glad you are not a thief.” 

“ Thank you, lady.” 

“ Sir, are you laughing at me ? ” 

“No indeed, mam.” 

“ Anyway, thief or no, you had best leave here soon 
. . . soon!” 

“You think he means me harm?” 

“ I ... I don’t know. But he is always dangerous 
in his cold anger.” 

“ Then that settles it, mam. London must wait. 
Guess I ’ll camp in Loring Village a spell.” 

“ Then you are foolish I ” said she, viewing him with 
troubled eyes, “Yes, very foolish! You will remain, 
I suppose for the sake of your silly pride? ” 

“And — a better thing, lady. A while since you 
said you were ‘ afraid ’ and ‘ lonesome.’ Well, now, 
I just want you to know I shall be near if you need 
me ... a friend you may rely on in any trouble, 
one who will be glad to help or serve you any way, 
for ... O well-!” 

“ For what? ” 

“ For the sake of the mother who taught me to re¬ 
spect and serve all women who were any ways troubled 
or distressed.” 

“ It must be a wonderful thing to have a mother! ” 
said Anticlea frowning down at the rippling water. 




96 The Loring Mystery 

‘‘I . . . never knew my mother; she was an outcast, 
a pauper . . . she died of want when I was born. To 
have had a mother to know and love . . . yes, I 
think I have missed a great deal . . . perhaps. And 
yet ... I have my B’lindy, and she’s more to me 
than-” 

Anticlea stopped all at once to sit rigidly staring; 
and in that same moment, David was upon his feet, 
for there within a yard of them, leaning gracefully upon 
his cane, his handsome, aquiline features softened by a 
sad and wistful smile, stood Sir Nevil Loring: 

“Forgive me if I intrude,” said he in his strangely 
pleasant tones, “but hearing voices as I limped past, 
I ventured here and found you so absorbed that I 
startled you, I fear.” 

“ Indeed, you walk very silently, sir! ” retorted 
David, chin uplift. 

“Ay, I do — I do!” sighed Sir Nevil, “My gait, as 
you may have remarked, is a hideous hobble, sir, and 
being an over-sensitive cripple, I hobble softly to escape 
such notice as I may. . . . But, young sir, I am glad 
to find you again that I may express my sincere regret 
for the reception I accorded you this morning. Sir, 
I am a wild, passionate creature, God forgive me, and 
given to gloomy despondencies and sudden angers, as 
this dear maid of mine could tell you if she would. . . . 
Thus, sir, I freely confess myself to blame and, craving 
your forgiveness, reach you my hand in friendship . . . 
if you will accept it ? ” 

From her position a little out of Sir Nevil’s line of 
vision, Anticlea frowned at David with a very slight 
shake of the head; perceiving which, David stood 
awkward and hesitant. 

“Sir Nevil,” said he, flushing, “you — your unex¬ 
pected kindness . . . your courtesy . . . unlooked-for 
humility, sir . . . amazes me almost beyond expres¬ 
sion-” 




A Second Meeting 97 

‘‘And will you therefore suffer me to plead in vain, 
young sir? ” 

Now, hearkening to this sweet, soft voice, moved by 
the wistful sadness of this handsome, gentle face, 
David stepped forward impulsively and clasped the 
slender hand reached out to him: 

“ Sir,” said he, “ say no more, I beg. Your doubts 
concerning me were probably justified . . . my wild 
looks , . . these shabby clothes-! ” 

“Noble youth!” sighed Sir Nevil, “Your generous 
forgiveness touches me sensibly, indeed far more deeply 
than my poor words-” 

The soft voice was drowned by a sudden, mirthless 
laugh, loud and strident: 

“Alas, sir,” cried Anticlea, laughing still, “and my 
handkerchief is wringing wet, so don’t— O, do not weep, 
I beg!” And beholding all the bitter mockery of 
curling lip and bright, wide eyes, David drew back a 
pace, shocked and amazed: 

“ Lady-” he began. 

“Nay, sir,” sighed Sir Nevil, “do not chide her, she 
is but the expression of my teaching . . . and by 
nature a wild creature with will unbroken ... a 
child-woman whose heart and senses slumber yet. 
Some day, my Anticlea, you shall wake, ah yes . . . 
wake to love and womanhood; perhaps then you may 
be a little kinder to even an unlovely cripple such as 
I . . . who knows ? ” And reaching out a swift, white, 
slender hand he touched the red-gold splendour of her 
hair, a soft, caressing touch infinitely gentle; but she 
shrank and cowered, starting as if his hand had stung 
her. 

“Don’t!” she panted, “Ah — don’t dare!” And 
then, swift and graceful as some startled wild thing, 
she was upon her feet, her back to the tree, fiercely 
defiant; while David, mute with surprised dismay, 
stared from the distorted beauty of her face to Sir 





98 The Loring Mystery 

Nevil who, bowing his head, spoke in voice almost ^ 
whispering: \ 

“ O, my dear 1 ” sighed he. “ My dear ! ” Then, } 
turning to David, he smiled ruefully: “ Alas, sir,” said 
he sadly, “Youth is sometimes a little cruel! . . . And 
yet, how should I complain, I, who from her youth up, ; 
have set her so ill an example ... I, the man of * 
glooms, despairs, and black choleric humours? Verily ; 
I am but justly requited, yet the sword of Justice bites i 
deep — deep! . . . But enough of this. You will, I ' 
hope, be my guest to-night. To-morrow if you wish, ■ 
horses and carriage shall be at your service — nay, " 
indeed, I myself will drive with you to London upon ' 
that business which touches us so vitally. But to-night ’ 
you shall know the hospitality of Loring Chase. . . . . 
You will not deny me, I hope? ” t 

Here, once again, David saw the fierce, negative ? 
shake of Anticlea’s shapely head. i 

“You will give a somewhat solitary man this pleasure, ’ 
sir?” enquired Sir Nevil, wistfully. j 

“ Sir,” answered David, after a brief hesitation, “ it j 
will be an honour! ” I 

“ Why, then,” said Sir Nevil, “ pray lend me your 
arm, sir. And do you, my Anticlea, go before and say ^ 
we have a guest.” I 

For a moment she stood frowning from one to the ? 
other, then, without uttering a word, caught up the 
long skirts of her habit and hurried away. 

“ A beautiful, tameless creature, sir! ” sighed Sir : 
Nevil as they followed, side by side, “ and yet, with - ^ 
all her wildness and sharp irreverent ton,gue I could not ; 
bear to lose her. . . . Doubtless you have recounted > 
to her something of your romantic story . . . disclosed 
your identity . . . the purpose of your coming . . . 
she would be interested, I presume ? ” 

“ No, sir,” answered David, “ I have told her nothing 
beyond my first name.” 'f 



A Second Meeting 99 

“I commend your discretion, sir. Women, even the 
best, are apt to tattle. . . . See, there is the moon 
already, it will be a . . . glorious night. To-morrow 
we will to London where our lawyer Gillespie shall 
resolve for us the mystery of the David who lies dead 
and buried and the David who is.” 

Thus walked David with Sir Nevil’s hand upon his 
arm, listening while his uncle talked of past, present 
and future; and hearkening to this pleasant, sweetly- 
modulated voice, beholding the wistful kindliness of 
this handsome face, David felt himself drawn more and 
more to this kinsman he had so misjudged. 

Reaching the house at last, David was ushered 
upstairs by a deferential, soft-treading footman to a 
sumptuous chamber where new clothes and fine linen 
awaited him, together with a deft-handed valet who 
duly shaved and groomed him. But clothes and linen 
David refused and, at summons of a soft-toned bell, 
descended the broad stair in his own shabby garments, 
(albeit sufficiently brushed) crossing a wide and 
lofty hall dim-lighted by windows high in the wall, 
he paused to glance around upon rich arras, carven 
beam and the glint of ancient weapon. Now, as he 
stood thus, lost in admiration, from a certain low- 
arched, curtained doorway flanked by effigies in dull- 
gleaming armour, stepped Anticlea; she had exchanged 
her riding-habit for a high-bosomed gown that clung 
about her loveliness, her gleaming hair was coiled high, 
yet with ringlets that flowed wanton to kiss smooth, 
rounded cheek; David stared until she frowned, where¬ 
upon he bowed his stateliest and thus beheld a slim, 
sandalled foot that tapped in angry impatience : 

“ So you refuse to be warned, sir! ” said she below 
her breath. 

“ Of what, lady.? ” 

“Of — him ! Though I am wondering why he should 
trouble to deceive — such as you! Who are you.?” 


100 


The Loring Mystery 

“Deceive?” repeated David, a little haughtily. 

“ Hush! ” she exclaimed imperiously, “ speak softly 
as I do ! ” 

“ And why must you whisper, mam ? ” 

“ For very good reason! What can be the cause of 
his play-acting—who are you?” 

“ Surely your suspicions of him are unjust, lady? ” 

“ And surely you are a lamb — a silly sheep! ” she 
retorted angrily yet in the same suppressed tone. 
“ But the doors are unlocked, sir, you may still escape 
before the wolf shows his teeth! ” 

“ Lady,” said David, with another stately obeisance, 
“I would remind you that the gentleman in question 
is my host-” 

“ And you are a blind fool! ” said she, fiercely 
scornful. “But I know him for the devil he is-” 

“ O, pray hush, mam! ” exclaimed David, shocked 
again by her passionate vehemence. “Your hatred for 
him is very sufficiently apparent and renders you 
hysterical-” 

“Hysterical — I?” she exclaimed angrily. 

“ At least,” answered David, “ you surely talk 
wildly. . . . And, indeed, seeing I am his guest it 
were unworthy in me to listen-” 

“Admirably said, sir!” murmured a soft voice, and 
Sir Nevil limped towards them from the shadows. 

“ What, are you there, sir — peeping and prying as 
usual? ” said Anticlea scornfully. 

“ Ay, I am here, child I ” he answered in his sad, 
gentle voice, leaning upon his cane to view her, wistful¬ 
eyed. 

“ O, I don’t fear you, sir I ” she exclaimed, drawing 
herself erect so that he must needs look up at her, 
“ I never did fear you, I never shall 1 Harm me. Sir 
Nevil Loring, harm me or any that I love and . . . 
so help me God, I ’ll kill you — and you know it! ” 

“Hush, child, hush!” pleaded Sir Nevil. “Indeed 






A Second Meeting loi 

you grow hysterical and talk wildly as our young 
friend says! . . . Heed her not, young sir, I beg! 
There — there, my Anticlea, be calm!” As he spoke 
he reached out his hand with sudden, swift gesture and 
laid it tenderly upon her shoulder; but with a gesture 
terrible to see, so wild and furious was it, she dashed 
that gentle hand away and, uttering an inarticulate 
cry, swept the curtain aside and was gone. 

“ Poor wild soul I ” sighed Sir Nevil, distressfully. 
“ Is there, think you, a passion so unreasoning as a 
woman’s hate.? Surely not! To what dark abysses 
of shame and horror may it plunge one! . . . Heaven 
shield thee from thyself, my Anticlea! . . . Pray, sir, 
lend me your arm; these incidents trouble me despite 
my philosophy. Come, the dinner waits, we will dine 
alone, kinsman.” 


CHAPTER XIV 

Telleth of a Strange Transformation 

“ Yours is indeed an enthralling? a wonderful story! ” 
said Sir Nevil, leaning back in his chair. “ In your 
place, I should be eternally grateful to that poor un¬ 
fortunate rogue Masson, for he undoubtedly saved 
your life! Indeed a truly marvellous story! ” 

“ And you believe it, sir? ” 

“Every word, nephew, every syllable!” said Sir 
Nevil, delicately skinning a peach. “You ran great 
peril and entirely through not keeping your own 
counsel.” 

“I was an egregious fool, sir!” said David, watch¬ 
ing the play of those long, white fingers opposite. 

“It will be a . . . lesson to you — eh, nephew? 
You will keep your concerns to yourself, henceforth?” 

“ Yes, indeed, sir! ” 

“ Except to your friends, of course. Have you many 
friends in England, kinsman?” 

“None, sir!” 

“Or . . . acquaintances? ” 

“ Two only, sir, and they are in London.” 

“Indeed? Two acquaintances? In London?” 

“It was they who found me in my misery . . . fed 
and sheltered me, sir.” 

“Worthy creatures! You are grateful, of course?” 

“ Beyond expression, sir. My case would have 
been desperate indeed but for the charity of Corporal 
Dick and Jasper Shrig.” 

The long, white fingers grew suddenly still and, 
glancing up, David beheld two eyes very wide .open 


A Strange Transformation 103 

and strangely brilliant that woke in him a vague dis¬ 
quiet, then the heavy lids hid them and Sir Nevil was 
busy with his peach again. 

“Wonderful!” he murmured. “Amazing coinci¬ 
dence! I happen to be acquainted with Jasper Shrig 
. . . he is a Bow Street Officer, I think? ” 

“ A Bow Street Officer, yes, sir! ” 

“ And being very naturally so full of gratitude you 
will doubtless seek him out ? ” 

“ Assuredly, sir! ” 

“Ah!” sighed Sir Nevil gently, “Very right! . . . 
But you drink nothing, kinsman! This wine of Oporto 
now, ’tis a rare vintage of reverent antiquity and 
worthy all honour.” 

“ Thank you, sir, but I have never tasted wine 
since that dreadful night, and probably never shall; 
it would nauseate me.” 

Sir Nevil lay back in his chair, pointed chin sunk 
amid the frill at his bosom; and meeting the keen 
scrutiny of these eyes, David felt yet again that sense 
of vague disquiet. 

“ Then you will not drink, kinsman? ” 

“Thank you — no.” 

“ Abstemious youth! ” murmured Sir Nevil. “ Then 
neither will I. . . . Instead I will scrape my fiddle at 
you! ” With surprising nimbleness Sir Nevil rose and, 
crossing to a tall armoire, came limping back bearing 
bow and violin. “ An ancient instrument, kinsman! ” 
said he, patting the violin with slim, caressing 
fingers, “an instrument wise with years, mellowed by 
time and consequently knowing much of good and 
evil. ... It can laugh with Folly, sing with Joy, and 
weep with Sorrow — hear it!” And tucking fiddle 
beneath pointed chin. Sir Nevil swept the strings with 
assured bow. . . . 

A lilting melody full of wild laughter and a madness 
of dancing feet, broken in upon by a sudden harsh 


104 The Loring Mystery 

dissonance changing to solemn chords which rose to a 
wild passion of wailing anguish that sank again in 
notes of tender yearning to die away in a sigh of 
agonised regret. 

“ Here, kinsman, is an old fiddle wise in that futility 
we call ‘ Life said Sir Nevil, lowering the instrument. 

“ O, sir . . . sir,” stammered David, “ you . . .1 
O, indeed you are a great master! ” 

“ Tush! ” smiled Sir Nevil, though quick to heed 
David’s awed sincerity. 

“Pray . . . pray, sir, continue.” 

“Egad!” laughed Sir Nevil, “If you are indeed 
fond of music you shall hear me really play and, which 
is better, Mrs. Belinda shall sing to us.” And he rang 
the silver hand-bell which stood at his elbow, whereupon 
a soft-stepping manservant entered and bowed. 

“ Pray bid Mrs. Belinda to the organ I ” 

The servant departing. Sir Nevil rose and led the 
way into the dim hall where presently was the flutter 
of a gown, the tread of quick, light feet, and Mrs. 
Belinda was before them. 

“Yes, Nevil?” she questioned in her gentle tones. 
“What must I play?” 

“ Mozart, child 1 The divine Mozart who said more 
in music than any ever said in words.” 

Obediently Mrs. Belinda, seeming slighter and more 
girlish than ever, seated herself at the great instrument; 
and suddenly, beneath those small, white fingers, 
swelled a glory of rushin,g melody which, rising to an 
ecstasy, sank to a plaintive murmur dominated by the 
sweet, wild notes of the violin. 

For an hour they played thus, compositions of the 
long dead master, and all without a written note. 

“Enough, child!” sighed Sir Nevil at last. “Now 
sing to us.” 

“ Yes, Nevil, I shall sing your song . . . the song 
you wrote when ... we both were youn,g.” 


A Strange Transformation 105 

“ No, no ! Sing something more worthy your voice.” 

I “Nevil, I sing nothing better than . . . your sons 
j. . . listen!” 

Out pealed the organ again and then, high and sweet 
land clear above the swelling chords, rose a voice so 
richly wonderful that David wondered anew. And 
1 these the words she sang: 

“ Come, gentle Night with dewy wings. 

Sink, glory, in the west; 

Come, Night, and to all weary things 
Give that sweet solace slumber brings; 
Forgetfulness and rest. 

O Death, since thou art kin to Sleep, 

Kind friend, I ’ll fear thee not. 

So when I die let no man weep 
But in the' darkness lay me deep. 

Forgetting and forgot.” 

“Bah!” exclaimed Sir Nevil as the music died, 
“ What a sentimental youth was I! But egad, I had 
my dreams — once! . . . You may go, Belinda, thank 
you, child, and good night. Your voice is wonderful 
. . . time doth not impair it! You have soothed me, 
as you ever do. To-night, mayhap, I shall sleep — 
good night! ” 

Murmuring his gratitude in turn, David bowed over 
Mrs. Belinda’s small, white fingers and watched her 
flit softly away, lost in his wonder still. 

“Yes,” sighed Sir Nevil, “I think I may sleep 
to-night. And yet — who knows! I am much cursed 
with insomnia, sir, at which times bed is a torment, 
and I walk. So should you chance to hear my hideous 
limping footstep in the small hours you will know my 
curse is on me. . . . To slumber dreamlessly — ah, 
here sure is a very gift of heaven ... a surcease from 
pain of soul and flesh — a rejuvenation. . . . And 
yonder comes Jordan to light you to bed; good night, 
young sir, and may your slumbers be — sound! ” 





CHAPTER XV 

Concerning the Events of a Night 

David’s keen glance had remarked it so soon as the 
door had closed behind the silent manservant; and now, 
having glanced round the sumptuous chamber with its 
rich furniture, its luxurious rugs, its walls covered with 
stamped leather, he must turn back to stare at the thing 
again: this picture seemingly sunk within the wall itself, 
this painting of a bewigged, heavy-faced gentleman who 
scowled from a dingy background, a very sinister-look¬ 
ing gentleman whose evil eyes seemed to follow David’s 
every movement as if trying to stare him out of coun¬ 
tenance, so much so indeed that almost instinctively 
David took to watching him also. 

Being in bed at last, David settled himself to sleep, 
but with his face in the direction of the picture; and 
now as he lay thus, staring upon the dark, he was 
conscious again of that vague and unaccountable dis¬ 
quiet; the picture, the dark room, the very air about 
him seemed to hold a menace of coming evil. At last, 
moved by some impulse he slipped out of bed, groped 
to the door and turned the key, wondering at himself 
the while. But worn and weary, David fell asleep at 
last and, dreaming unhappily, awoke to find his chamber 
bright with the moon, and the bewigged gentleman 
scowling at him more ferociously than ever. So lying 
outstretched in luxurious ease, David stared back at 
this pictured face, wonderin,g idly who he had been, and 
then sat up all at once to stare in breathless intensity, 
for it seemed to him that the eyes of this picture had 
blinked. . . . Motionless and scarcely breathing David 


The Events of a Night 107 

stared, every sense strung and alert. . . . Yes, surely 
these eyes seemed horribly alive . . . and yet — even 
as he gazed, the pictured face glared back at him sud¬ 
denly blank and lifeless. 

Out from the sheets leapt David to seize a chair, to 
set it beneath the picture; and mounted thereon, being 
thus near, saw that the eyes of this malevolent pictured 
face were no more than paint after all. Descending 
from the chair he anathematised his folly; and yet 
something in this sombre room, the deep hush of the 
great house, something he knew not what, chilled him, 
though the night was warm, and he shivered violently. 
One of the latticed casements was open and going 
thither he leaned out, breathing an air fragrant with 
honeysuckle, and looked down upon a broad sweep of 
marble terrace with lawns and stately trees, beyond, 
whose dark shapes, stark against the moon, stirred not, 
for the night was very still. Then out from these sombre 
shadows crept another shadow, a shapeless thing that 
flitted unheard, nearer and nearer until David could 
see it was a man with a mighty bush of hair, a man 
who crouched to peer this way and that and so was 
gone. 

David turned from the window and, moved again by 
some compelling influence, began to dress, swiftly. He 
was reaching for his coat when he paused, fancying 
he heard something, a soft, blurred sound somewhere 
behind the panelling, a stealthy sound which resolved 
itself into a furtive, limping footstep. 

On went David’s coat, and his fingers closed grimly 
on the silver-mounted pistol in his pocket. Then, tak¬ 
ing boots beneath his arm, he crept softly towards 
the door, and halted in shocked amazement; for, locked 
though it was, this door was slowly, softly opening. 

David cocked and whipped out the pistol only to 
hide it as swiftly behind him and shrink back as Anticlea 
stepped softly into the room. 


io8 The Loring Mystery 

“Hush!” she whispered, “ You refused to be warned 1 
. . . Listen! ” 

From somewhere in the shadows of the great house 
came the sound of that creeping, limping footstep. 

“ What is it? ” he whispered. 

“Quick!” she breathed, “Follow me!” As she 
spoke she caught his hand in warm, purposeful fingers 
and led him swiftly along a thick-carpeted passage to 
a chamber where candles burned whose soft light 
showed him a luxurious bed, a dressing-table where 
glass and silver glittered, a chair heaped with feminine 
garments and an open window. 

“ There lies your way,” she whispered, “ you must 
climb down! ” 

“How so, lady?” 

“ By the ivy stems. Quick, I tell you ... I have 
done it many a time — go, go! ” 

“ But — why, mam ? ” 

“Oh — just because! Now — hurry!” 

“But, mam, why should I run away-?” 

“ Quick — quick! He — Yaxley is coming! ” 

“But who — what does it all mean? ” 

“ I ... I don’t know . . . only go away—hurry! ” 
So David swung himself out over the sill and grasp¬ 
ing the gnarled ivy stems, began to descend forthwith 
and found it a matter of no great difficulty. Having 
descended thus a little way, he glanced up to whisper 
yet another question, but saw the lattice above him 
was already closed and dark. 

Reaching the ground he stood a moment to stare 
round about and up at the house in an ever-grow¬ 
ing wonder; and thus he saw a certain window 
ablaze with sudden light, a window he knew for that 
of the chamber he had occupied, saw a figure outlined 
against this light, and the face of Sir Nevil peering 
out from the open casement, and beholding the ex¬ 
pression on this face, he crouched down amid the 



The Events of a Night 109 

ivy, close, close against the wall, until he heard the 
casement slammed to and glancing up saw the light had 
vanished. 

And in a while David went his way wondering more 
than ever. 


CHAPTER XVI 


Tells of a Man With a Harelip 

Drowsily a-sprawl on the bench lay David to reflect 
upon the divers incidents of the last eventful twenty- 
four hours; to rejoice anew in the miracle of his re¬ 
stored memory; to frown at recollection of his uncle; to 
ponder how best he might set about the difficult task 
of establishing his own identity; to reflect upon the 
sullen-eyed, red-haired Amazon of the wood and be 
shocked anew by her passionate ferocity and yet to 
murmur her name, “Anticlea,” and, finally to nod 
himself into blissful doze that gradually became 
troubled by a sound that grew to a stertorous breath¬ 
ing— a strange, snuffling whistle; wherefore he 
opened drowsy eyes and beheld a hu,ge head stooped 
above him, saw a face surmounted by a weather¬ 
beaten fur cap and framed in lank hair, an unlovely 
face rendered yet more sinister by that blemish 
known as a ‘‘ harelip ”; and it was from this disfigured 
mouth that the whistling snuffle issued. As he stared, 
this head was withdrawn and, sitting up, David’s hand 
instinctively sought the weapon in his pocket, for be¬ 
fore him, leaning upon a long-barrelled gun, stood a 
man whose like he had never seen before. Stunted he 
seemed, but hugely, disproportionately broad, the head, 
arms and shoulders of a colossus set upon a pair of 
short, powerful bowed legs. The hands of this man, 
enormous and hairy, were crossed upon the muzzle of 
his long weapon, and upon these rested his clean-shaven, 
full-fleshed chin, while the small eyes, close-set and 
deep-sunken beneath a jut of shaggy brow, stared in 


Ill 


A Man with a Harelip 

turn at David’s new headgear, at his right hand, at 
his left hand, at his dusty clothes and boots and, last 
of all, at his face. 

Now, observing this slow, patient, beast-like scrutiny, 
David shrank with a feeling of sudden and growing 
apprehension, but when he spoke his drawl was rather 
more pronounced than usual: 

uif 

ever we should chance to meet again, you’d 
know me, I guess. 

“Ay, I shall!” snuffled the man, lisping nasally by 
reason of his malformed upper lip. 

“ Ha 1 ” said David, beginning to frown, “ And now, 
if you have anything particular to do, you may go and 
do it.” 

“ I’m a-doin’ of it! ” lisped the man, staring hard 
at David’s hands again. 

“ You are a gamekeeper, I think,” said David, 
noting the velveteen jacket and stout, buttoned gaiters. 

“ Ar! ” said the man. 

“And live on the Loring estate, yonder.^^” 

“ Umph 1 ” snuffed the man, and slid fleshy chin from 
hairy hands to spit resoundingly. 

“ Then supposing you go and — ‘ keep ’ where you 
belong!” suggested David. 

The man snorted; his gaze wandered slowly down 
from David’s new hat to his worn boots and he nodded 
in sly, furtive manner. 

“ Umph! ” quoth he again. 

“ Enough, babbler! ” said David, waving him off 
imperiously. “Your extreme verbosity distracts me. 
Get on your way. Chatterbox, and do your prattling 
elsewhere.” 

“You be thrange in theth parth — hey.^” demanded 
the man suddenly. 

“ And you,” retorted David, “ you are stranger — in 
every part! ” 

“You wath up to the ’outh, yethterday — hey” 


112 


The Loring Mystery 


“ If you mean Lorin,g Chase — I was.” 

“ Why, then, I Ve a letter for ye,” growled the man, 
“ leathwayth ith all according-” 

“ A letter.? For me.? ” 

“ If your name be David.” 

“ I am named David.” 

“ But you’ve got an ’at.” 

“ And what of it.? ” 

“ I were to give thith ’ere letter to a chap wi’ ’is ’ead 
in a bandage . . . an^im one elth . . . werry particler 
she told me-” 

“Well, my head is bandaged . . . And who is 
‘she’.?” 


“ And no ’at! ” repeated the man. 

“ This was purchased not long ago. . . .” 

“ Name o’ David.” 

“ I tell you my name is David. • . . Who is ‘ she ’.? ” 

“ David what.? ” demanded the man. 

“ Whatever you like! ” said David, frowning. 

“ Name o’ David! ” murmured the keeper, as if to 
himself, “ ’ead in a bandage! And no ’at! Umph 
. . . you may be ’im and then again ye may be not 
. . . ’ows’ever—’ere’s the writin’!” And removing 
his fur cap he took thence a letter and gave it to David. 
It bore no superscription and was sealed with a wafer, 
and glancing from this to the bearer, David saw him 
in the act of readjusting his fur cap but with his gaze 
still fixed upon him in that same patient, beast-like 
scrutiny he had already found so disturbing. 

“Why do you stare so.?” he questioned angrily. 

“Name o’ David!” muttered the keeper, “’ead in 
a bandage . . . but — with an ’at ... a light grey 
’at!” 


(( 


What are you waiting for.?” 
The anther, for thure.” 

You expect an answer, then.? ” 
Thath what I be waitin’ for.” 




A Man with a Harelip 113 

Hereupon David broke the wafer, unfolded the letter 
and read these words, written in a fine Italian hand: 

‘‘Meet me by the old Weir Mill at sunset, without 
fail. — Anticlea.” 

For a long moment he stared at the words, then re¬ 
folding the letter, put it in his pocket. 

“ You may say I will be there.” 

“ I’m to say as you ’ll be there — hey.?’ ” 

“Yes!” nodded David. “Without fail.” 

“ Without fail! ” repeated the man. “ Anything 
more.f^ ” 

“ No I ” answered David. 

“No,” said the man; and shouldering his gun he 
turned to go, then paused to glance back. 

“Well?” enquired David impatiently. 

“ Ar I ” nodded the man, “ I’m to thay as you ’ll be 
there . . . without fail — hey?” 

“ Yes.” 

The skin about the man’s little eyes wrinkled sud¬ 
denly, the thick lips parted disclosing big, yellow teeth 
— and as smiling thus he shambled away, David 
thought him a thousand times more sinister than ever. 


CHAPTER XVII 


How Mr. Shrig Talked with a Dead Man 

Lounging back on the settle, David watched the un¬ 
couth figure out of sight, then took forth and opened 
the letter to read it over and over again, studying each 
word until, roused by a faint sound, he turned sharply 
and stared in dumb amazement to behold the Peddler 
leaning out of the window behind to peer at the open 
letter in his hand. 

‘‘What the — the devil-” stammered David, 

flushing angrily. 

“ I can’t eggsackly make out that ’ere last vord,” said 
the Peddler, “ but I’ve got the rest, ‘ Meet me by the 
old Weir Mill at sunset vithout fail ’ . . . but that last 
vord’s a teazer! Begins vith a hay, don’t it ? ” 

“Ha!” exclaimed David, and thrusting letter into 
pocket he rose and clenched his fists, whereupon the 
Peddler closed one eye and wagged an admonishing 
finger: 

“ ’Old ’ard, pal 1 ” quoth he in a hoarse whisper. 
“ Never go for to strike your true pal as is a vatching 
over you like a feyther and mother rolled into vun.” 

“ Why, who — what do you mean ? ” exclaimed David 
staring and falling back a step. “ Who — who are 
you ? ” 

“Name o’ Shrig, pal, in a vig and viskers. Jarsper 
Shrig o’ Bow Street as you saved from a windictive end. 
You ain’t forgot your pal Jarsper and Corporal Dick 
as keeps ‘ The Gun ’ in Gray’s Inn Lane — come 1 ” 

“ Why, to be sure,” said David, a little breathlessly, 
« but-” 





A Talk with a Dead Man 115 

“ Then, Lord love you, p’raps you can i-dentify 
yourself at last. Jack — eh? Remember ’oo you are, 
how you come into the river an’ all — eh?” 

“Yes, my memory has come back, I remember now, 
thank God! ” 

Mr. Shrig edged himself further through the window, 
at the imminent risk of overbalancing, and spoke in a 
hoarse whisper: 

“And vot might your name be now, pal? ” 

“ I am David Loring.” 

“ Domino! ” exclaimed Mr. Shrig, and smote himself 
resoundingly upon the crown of the weatherbeaten hat 
he wore; indeed, his usual serenity was so far shaken 
that he snapped the thumb and fingers of each hand 
loudly in turn; “ Domino me, pal! ” he repeated. 

“Pray, what might you mean?” enquired David, 
wholly at a loss. 

“ I mean as Hope ain’t and Certainty is! Come in, 
pal, alon,g o’ me vhere nobody can tvig and I ’ll tell ye 
more.” 

Wondering, David entered the inn and followed Mr. 
Shrig up a narrow stair to a small chamber under the 
eaves whose latticed casement afforded a wide view of 
meadow, woodland and undulating park where, afar, 
rose the gables of a noble house bowered in trees, 
towards which last Mr. Shrig pointed a blunt finger. 

“ Loring Chase! ” said he; his fiuger hovered, fol¬ 
lowing the course of a winding stream, and paused sud¬ 
denly to stab at a shapeless something dim-seen amid 
the distant woods: “ Loring Weir Mill! ” he nodded. 

“Well,” enquired David, taking the chair his host 
proffered, “what have you to tell me?” 

“ First of all,” said Mr. Shrig, seatiug himself upon 
the narrow bed, opposite David, “first of all you’re 
dead and in your grave-” 

“Good God!” ejaculated David, starting. “Man, 
are you mad ? ” 



Ii6 The Loring Mystery 

“ Leastways,” continued Mr. Shrig placidly, “ I have 
read your name on a, coffin vith silver ’andles, and seed 
that there coffin dooly buried.” 

“I see!” exclaimed David indignantly, “You don’t 
believe I am David Loring — you think I’m lying I ” 

“Never in this world, pal — I know you are David 
Loriug, as I’m ready to svear. But ’oo vas the corp’ 
they took out o’ the river — the found-drowned as 
come ashore astarn o’ Bill Bartrum’s boat at nine 
o’clock at night on the twenty-first o’ May last — five 
veeks ago! Since ’e vas n’t you, pal, oo vos ’e ... do 
ye know? ” 

“ I think so,” answered David; “ yes, I think so, but 
I’m not sure. ... Was he tall, slight, with dark hair? ” 

“ Aye, pal, ’e vas 1 ” 

“And his face,” continued David, “handsome, I re¬ 
member, with aquiline features and dark eyes . . . yes, 
a handsome face.” 

“Why ’e ’adn’t got much face to speak on . . .” 
said Mr. Shrig, shaking his head, “but ’e vas buried 
werry elegant all at Sir Nevil’s expense . . . best oak 
an’ silver ’andles . . . ah, and an ’earse wi’ plumes! 
A reg’lar, bang-up funeral it were and your name on the 
coffin-” 

“ My name ? ” repeated David. 

“ As ever vas 1” nodded Mr. Shrig. “ ‘ David Loring, 
aged twenty-four’ ... on a silver plate, werry ’and- 
some too! ” 

“But why,” cried David, “why bury him under my 
name? ” 

“P’r’aps because ’e ’appened to have on ’is person 
papers and letters in your name-” 

“ Ah — my papers 1 ” exclaimed David. “ Then per¬ 
haps he still had my mother’s miniature, my ring — the 
serpent ring of the Lorings-” 

“ And likevise a purse, pal, containing fifteen guineas, 
no more an’ no less-” 






A Talk with a Dead Man 117 

“Then,” said David, starting to his feet, “beyond 
all doubt he was the man who drugged and robbed me 
— Joseph Masson.” 

“ And you,” nodded Mr. Shrig, “ you are Sir David 
Loring of Loring Chase, Baronet . . . and here’s my 
best respex, sir-” 

“And here, Jasper Shrig, here is my hand and with 
it my gratitude for your faith in me.” 

“ Why, sir,” said Mr. Shrig, a little sheepishly, as 
David wrung his hand, “it ain’t exactly — altogether 
vot you might call faith, sir.” 

“Then what makes you so ready to believe me, so 
sure I am not deceiving you ” 

“ Obserwation, sir, de-duction, adding a bit ’ere, sub- 
stracting a bit theer . . . and then, besides, you’ve got 
the Loring finger — two on ’em! Your little fingers is 
longer than ordinary folkses — like your uncle as calls 
hisself Sir Nevil. . . . And talkin’ of him, what about 
that there letter and that ’ere cove as brought it — 
’im in the fur cap, name o’ Yaxley, Thomas Yaxley — 
’im vith the gun and the ’arelip, ain’t a partick’ler friend 
o’ your’n, is ’e ? ” 

“Heaven forbid!” 

“Did you ’appen to ob-serve his fambles, sir.?^” 

“ Fambles ? ” repeated David. 

“Daddies, then' — his ’ands, pal.?” 

“ Hairy and very large, I thought.” 

“Large is the vord, pal, and strong — ah, pro¬ 
digious ! I never see a finer pair of ’ands, no,” sighed 
Mr. Shrig, “never in all my nat’ral. And this ’ere 
cove took werry partick’ler notice o’ your noo ’at, took 
werry remarkable, partick’ler notice ’e did! And 
vherefore, d’ye suppose, now.?” 

“ Heaven knows! ” 

“ Werry likely ! ” nodded Mr. Shrig. “ But you von’t 
go adwenturing to Loring Weir Mill at sunset, o’ 
course.? ” 



Ii8 The Loring Mystery 

“And why not, pray?” 

“ Caution forbids, sir. Reason says NO!” 

“ And do you imagine I would permit such an appeal 
to go unanswered — under any circumstances ? ” 

“It all depends, pal.” 

“ On what ? ” 

“ On ’oo ’appens to do the appealin’, sir. Is it an 
’im or an ’er, might I ax ? ” 

“ It is a lady.” 

“ Eggsackly 1 ” nodded Mr. Shrig placidly. “ And 
do you ’appen to know this ’ere lady’s ’andwriting? ” 

“ I do not.” 

“ Ah! ” murmured Mr. Shrig gently. “ Under vich 
circumstances Caution, Reason and Prudence, j’ining in 
chorus, adwises you to — ’old ’ard.” 

“ And very soon,” said David, rising, “ yes, in a little 
while it will be sunset.” 

“ Vich means as you ’re a-going? ” 

“ This moment.” 

“ Spoke like a true-blue Briton and bang-up sports¬ 
man, sir!” exclaimed Mr. Shrig, beaming through his 
false whiskers. “ I’m a-coming along wi’ you, pal! ” 

“ Indeed, I think not! ” said David, becoming haughty 
all at once. 

“ Then you think wrong, sir,” quoth Mr. Shrig, 
tucking the knobby stick under his arm, “ for coming 
I am, pal! ” 

“ Ridiculous ! ” exclaimed David, angrily. “ You will 
have the goodness to mind your own business — and 
be damned! ” 

“ And I’m a-coming vith you, pal,” continued Mr. 
Shrig, hk beamin,g placidity wholly unruffled, “ for two 
werry good reasons, first because I can show you the 
vay, and second because Loring Veir Mill and parts 
adjacent thereto ain’t eggsackly ’ealthy for you, be¬ 
cause you ’appen to be Sir David Loring o’ Loring, 
Baronet! ” 


A Talk with a Dead Man 119 

“ Ah! ” exclaimed David, turning to gaze towards 
the distant chimneys of Loring Chase. “ You think 
there may be danger for me — yonder.^” 

“Ay, I do, sir!” 

“ Grave danger ” 

“ Of the werry gravest, pal.” 

“ It looks very peaceful,” said David, “ very quiet, 
and yet . . . you suggest-” 

“ That if you go a-valking there alone you ’ll never 
come a-valking back, sir! I suggest that you ’ll . . . 
disappear, pal . . . wanish! I suggest as there won’t 
be no mistake about it — this time I ” 

“Mistake.?” repeated David, wheeling suddenly to 
stare into Mr. Shrig’s placid face. “What mistake.? 
. . . What in God’s name do you mean.?” 

But instead of answering, Mr. Shrig pursed his lips 
in their soundless whistle and shook portentous head. 

“ Speak, man 1 ” cried David, grasping his arm. 
‘‘ What unthinkable horror is here.? Speak, man, speak! 
What is it you suspect.?” 

“ A precious lot! ” nodded Mr. Shrig. “ Ah, such a’ 
almighty powerful, precious lot as there ain’t no vord 
for it I And because v’y.? Because suspicion ain’t fact, 
and facts is only facts when they ’re proved! And it’s 
proof as I’m here a-seekin’ and a-searchin’ for . . . 
and ’ope to find vith your kind assistance.” 

“My assistance.? But how — how — how can I help 
you.? ” 

“ Yich I vould remind you, sir,” answered Mr. Shrig, 
glancing towards the western sky, “ as it will be sunset 
werry soon! ” 

“ I see I ” said David, turning to scowl across sunny 
meadow and shady copse, “Yes . . . I begin to under¬ 
stand ! ” 

“ Then ’ow about it.? ” enquired Mr. Shrig at length. 
“’Ow about it, pal — or should I say ‘sir’.?” 

“ ‘ Pal ’ will do, I guess,” answered David in his 



120 


The Loring Mystery 

soft drawl. ‘‘And since it is proof you seek yonder, 
friend Jasper, come — let us do our best to find it.” 

“Pal,” enquired Mr. Shrig as they descended the 
stair, “do you ’appen to be armed?” 

“I have this,” answered David, showing his pistol. 
“Is it loaded?” 

“Yes.” 

“ That’s a pity! ” 

“Why so?” 

“ Because ve don’t want no more shootin’ than need¬ 
ful.” 

“There won’t be,” answered David, pocketing the 
weapon. 

And so they set out for Loring Weir Mill together. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


Which Describes Certain Happenings at Loring 
Weir Mill 

The sun was low as, turning from the leafy path 
they had been following, Mr. Shrig struck off into the 
denser wood, ducking under obtruding branches, edging 
his way through rustling underbrush, skirting impene¬ 
trable thickets, like one to whom the place was familiar. 

Reaching a small glade or clearing, he halted sud¬ 
denly, with one finger upraised, and stood listening 
intently. 

“ Pal,” he whispered, ‘^you ain’t easy scared, are ye.^” 

“ I hope not,” answered David, also in a whisper. 

“ Then you von’t mind if I leaves you? ” 

“ Certainly not! ” said David, a little indignantly. 

“ And if I tells you to lay low, you ’ll — lay low . . . 
till I calls you ? ” 

“Very well!” 

“ And you von’t novise go a-letting fly vith that ’ere 
barker o’ yourn at nobody nor nothing? ” 

“ You may rest assured.” 

“Werry good, pal, then follow me — and easy does 
it I ” 

Swiftly but cautiously they crossed the glade, and so 
through more underbrush until borne to their ears came 
the soft gurgle of running water. Here Mr. Shrig 
halted a,gain and, parting the leaves before him, peered 
through, motioning David to do the same: 

“ Loring Veir Mill, pal I ” he whispered. 

Some hundred yards or so before them, beyond a 
stretch of rank grass, rose a dreary ruin, its weather¬ 
worn masonry cracked and discoloured, its rotting 


122 


The Loring Mystery 

thatch dishevelled, its crumbling walls pierced by two 
slits that had once been windows, and between these' 
a doorway that yawned upon a black interior whence 
stole the dismal drip of water; a desolate place of 
mildew and decay with something ominously sinister in j 
its every aspect. ij 

‘‘ Bee-ootiful! ” murmured Mr. Sbrig. “ O, pal, did < 
ye ever see a lov’lier spot.^ ” 

“ I never saw one more evil! ” = 

“To be sure,” nodded Mr. Shrig, “bee-ootifully so! 

I never knowed a more likely spot for it — no, never! ” 
“ For what ? ” questioned David below his breath. ' 
“The Capital Act I . . . Murder, pal! . . . And 
now, I ’ll trouble you for your ’at. ...I’m a-going to 
try a’ old trick as has served me more nor vunce and 
may again. ... So lend me your castor, pal.” Won¬ 
dering, David complied, and at Mr. Shrig’s whispered 
desire stretched himself full length among the under¬ 
growth. 

“ Lay low, pal, lay low! ” whispered Mr. Shrig, 
“ an’ whatever ’appens, don’t go for to move until 
you see me or hear me call . . . lay low!” Saying 
which, Mr. Shrig turned and was presently hid among 
the leaves. 

Meanwhile David lay very full of wonder and a 
growing unease, a foreboding sense of approaching 
evil that seemed but the more real and imminent with 
every slow-passing minute; therefore he strained his 
ears and stared at the ruined mill with eyes of expec¬ 
tancy while every nerve tingled for what was to be. 

Gradually the shadows deepened about him until as 
he stared at the ruin it seemed, little by little, to take 
on the form and semblance of a monstrous human 
head with staring eyes and mouth horribly agape; a 
ghastly, pallid head, surmounted by black, dishevelled 
hair, and which, as the light failed, grew ever the more 
sinister and threatening. 



I Certain Happenings 123 

|| And now, all at once, somewhere amid the leafy 
i shadows of the wood rose a soft and flute-like whistling, 
: with a leafy rustling that grew slowly nearer until, 
I peering thither, David made out the head and shoulders 
I of a man; the sun had set by now and the shadows 
were creeping apace, yet there was sufficient light for 
David to see that this man wore a hat of grey felt with 
a white ribbon, a conspicuous hat that was strangely 
familiar. Scarcely breathing, he watched this hat ap¬ 
proach nearer and nearer until beneath the brim he 
could discern hair dark and bushy. . . . Moved by 
sudden impulse he glanced swiftly towards the ruined 
mill and, catching his breath, started to his knees as 
from the yawning doorway that was so like a gaping 
mouth shot a streak of red flame. ... As the report 
smote his ears, David was up, had burst from his 
hiding-place and, uttering a fierce, inarticulate cry, 
was running towards that murderous ruin. He was 
close upon it when two arms grappled him behind — 
strong arms that would not be shaken off — and Mr. 
Shrig’s voice panted in his ear: 

“ ’Old ’ard, pal . . . caution’s . . . the vord! ” 
“Good God!” he ejaculated, “What was it.^^ What 
does it mean ? ” 

“ My old trick vorked, pal, that’s all . . . and 

you’ve been an’ gone an’ sp’iled it-” 

“ Quick! ” cried David. “ Loose me, we may catch 

the villain yet ... in there-” 

“Not ’e, pal, not ’e . . . there’s a door t’other side 
— ’e’s ’opped it. You should ha’ laid low and vaited 

for ’im to come and diskiver tlie body-” 

“ What body — whose do you mean.? ” 

“ Why, youm for sure — leastways what ’e took for 
you. Come and look.” So saying Mr. Shrig led the 
way to where lay an object, or rather several, each of 
which he named as he gathered them up: 

“ Number vun, my staff vith a stick tied acrost it. 





124 The Loring Mystery 

Number two, my coat. Number three, my neckerchief 
stuffed with leaves — and tore by shot, you’ll notice! 
Number four, my vig, likevise damaged. Number 
five, your ’at com-pletely sp’iled, done for and ever¬ 
lastingly ruinated. There ain’t much left of it — eh, 
pal.f^ ” he enquired, turnin,g the mangled object com¬ 
placently upon his fist. “Now if so be your ’ead ’ad 
chanced to be inside of it ’stead o’ my neckerchief 
stuffed wi’ leaves — v’ere would you be, pal.?^ I ask 
you 1 ” 

Now beholding the grey hat thus horribly torn, David 
grew cold with a sudden nausea. 

“Under the circumstances,” continued Mr. Shrig, 
“ it’s just as well I come along wi-” 

Somewhere in the shadows behind them a dried stick 
cracked loudly. 

“ By Goles — ’e’s a-coming back 1 ” whispered Mr. 
Shrig. “ This vay pal, and sharp’s the vord! ” 

Dazed by the suddenness of it all and yielding to the 
urge of his companion’s powerful hand, David presently 
found himself in the gloom of the old mill with the 
acrid smell of burnt powder in his nostrils; suffered 
himself to be led across an uneven flooring into a 
certain corner where the crumbling masonry showed a 
wide crack or fissure through which he glimpsed a 
stretch of grass shut in by a wilderness of tangled 
thickets and sombre trees. 

Somewhere in the gloom behind them was the un¬ 
ceasing, dismal drip, drip of falling water; but what 
David hearkened for was the rustle of leaves, the tread 
of a stealthy foot amid the deepening shadows. Strain¬ 
ing his ears thus, the wood seemed full of mysterious 
sounds; soft, leafy stirrings, gentle, irregular tappings, 
an infinity of small, unaccountable noises; with always 
the rippling murmur of the brook amid the shade of 
the alders, and the mournful, echoing drip, drip, some¬ 
where in the gloom behind him. 



Certain Happenings 125 

All at once David started and caught his breath as, 
among the boskages to his left, a stick snapped again 
beneath a leisurely foot suddenly arrested, for there 
ensued a moment’s utter stillness, then the leaves 
rustled, were parted, and Sir Nevil Loring appeared. 
He was shrouded in a long, dark cloak and wore a 
wide-eaved hat beneath which his face gleamed a pale 
oval in the half light as he stood, slender hands crossed 
upon his cane, head out-thrust while his eager gaze 
seemed to question every patch of shadow, every bush, 
every inequality of the ground until, espying thus a 
twisted log that lay rotting half-buried in the rank 
grass, he hobbled swiftly forward, peering; but being 
come up with it and finding it no more than what it 
was, he struck it passionately with his cane and turn¬ 
ing swiftly came limpin,g towards the mill. He was 
within a yard of the doorway when he halted, arrested 
by a crashing amid the underbrush behind him, where¬ 
upon he retraced his steps and setting a small whistle 
to his lips sounded thereon a shrill note. The crashing 
grew louder, a gun-barrel gleamed dully and the man 
with the harelip stepped into view, touching his fur 
cap to Sir Nevil as he came. 

Hereupon ensued a low-voiced colloquy between 
them until Sir Nevil, flourishing his cane threateningly, 
exclaimed: 

“ Then find it, vermin! ” 

At this the keeper began questing here and there like 
a hound casting about for the scent; up and down and 
to and fro he went, his ungainly form bent double, 
halting now and then to peer where the shadows lay 
darkest, probing every bush, every adjacent thicket 
with the muzzle of his long gun, while Sir Nevil, lean¬ 
ing upon his cane, watched him with a strange intent¬ 
ness. 

“ Fool! ” he cried at last. “ Come here! ” Unwill¬ 
ingly the man obeyed and, being within reach, out shot 


126 The Loring Mystery 

Sir NeviFs slim, white hand to pin him by the neckcloth; 
holding him thus, Sir Nevil spoke and, though his voice 
was softly modulated, the burly fellow, for all his brut¬ 
ish ferocity and giant strength, shrank and quailed; 
then, loosing his hold, Sir Nevil struck him fiercely with 
his cane and, tumin,g his back disdainfully, hobbled 
away. Now, as he watched him go, the man Yaxley 
crouched stealthily, made as if to level his gun, hesitated, 
and raising one huge hand shook it towards Sir NeviFs 
unconscious back, clawing fiercely at the air with cruel, 
talon-like fingers; then, spitting venomously, he 
shouldered his gun, slunk into the shadows, and was 
gone. 

“ And there y’are! ” quoth Mr. Shrig. 

David rose and, coming to the open doorway, leaned 
there shivering while he wiped the sweat from his face. 

“Shook ye a bit, eh pal.?^” enquired Mr. Shrig 
solicitously. 

“ Let us go ! ” said David, hoarsely. 

“ Homing nature’s a queer thing and apt to turn 
ugly if drove sufficient.” 

“ Let us go! ” repeated David in the same tense 
voice. 

“ Not yet, pal. Ye see Harelip is maybe on the 
qui-wive, as they furrineers say, and there’s still light 
enough to shoot by — under vich circumstances Caution 
says: vait a bit! Look about you, pal, look about 
you! ” exclaimed Mr. Shrig, viewing their dismal sur¬ 
roundings in a kind of placid ecstasy. “Did burning 
eye ever see a sveeter spot for it, or a place more sooted 
to a Capital Deed? I ask ye now. Come and ’ave a 
look here, pal, take a peep at this! ” Crossing to a 
dark corner, Mr. Shrig stooped and raised a trap that 
formed part of the flooring and displayed a well-shaft 
foul with slimy fungoid growths, from whose black 
depths rose a fetid air, with the hollow plash of drip¬ 
ping water far below. 


Certain Happenings 127 

“ And there y’are again! ” he nodded, beaming down 
at these grim and awful depths. “ Now if somebody 
suddenly dead, say, or only ’arf-dead ’appened to get 
dropped down ’ere . . . ’e’d wanish, eh, pal? Ah . . . 
and stay wanished ’till the crack o’ doom! ” 

“ Cover it up! ” said David, shuddering, “ Cover it 
up! And for the love of God . . . come away!” 


CHAPTER XIX 
Tells of a Gold Button 

Night had fallen when, following whither his com¬ 
panion led, David espied a gate before them with the 
welcome glimmer of the high-road beyond, and instinc¬ 
tively hastened his steps. 

But reaching the gate, Mr. Shrig paused to turn 
and stare back at the wood that loomed blacker than 
the night, a dark mystery whence, ever and anon, came 
desolate sighings and groanings, for the wind was 
rising; indeed, he seemed to find a strange allure in 
this forbidding prospect, unheeding David’s impatience 
to be gone. 

“ Bide a bit, pal! ” quoth he, settling his back more 
comfortably against the gate-post. ‘‘Where’s your 
hurry’Tis a fine night, though it’s a-going to blow, 
I think. Still, Oliver’s in town, d’ye see-” 

“Who is Oliver.?” 

“ ‘ Oliver’s ’ flash for the moon, pal. And supper 
von’t be ready yet, and if’t is, I ain’t ready for it. . . . 
And though born in London, I like the country — 
partic’larly voods — and extry partic’larly Loring 
Vood—at night. And if you ax me-” 

Mr. Shrig’s lounging form stiffened suddenly, his 
right hand vanished into capacious side-pocket, and 
David also stared keen-eyed towards that dark wood 
as above the moan of rising wind came a sound of 
running feet, very quick and light, that sped towards 
them through the gloom until David could distin¬ 
guish the figure of a woman, a small, girlish form. 




Tells of a Gold Button 129 

bare-headed and with something white clasped to her 
bosom. 

Suddenly she stopped and shrank back, uttering a 
pitiful, inarticulate cry of terror, whereupon David 
stepped forward, speaking in his soft tones: 

“Pray do not be distressed, madam, indeed you 
have nothing to fear.” And now he recognised her 
for the lady he had seen with Anticlea in the wood. 
“ Can I help you, mam.?* ” he enquired, seeing that 
the thing she clasped to her bosom was the limp body 
of a small, white dog. 

“Thank you! ” she panted breathlessly, “I — I want 
. . . Crook, sir . . . Jim Crook, please ... he under¬ 
stands dogs ... he cured my little Daphne before 
... so kind and tender with animals, and my little 
Daphne is hurt—-greatly, I fear! See . . . see how 
still she lies ! ” 

“I know something of animals, lady — suffer me!” 
And taking the small, soft body from her arms, David 
carried it where the rising moon made a glory amid 
the gloom. 

“Is she suffering — in pain, sir.?^” 

“No lady . . . she is beyond all that.” 

“Ah! Do you mean . . . dead, sir.^” 

“Yes, lady.” 

“ Are you sure ? Quite . . . quite sure, sir ? ” 

“Quite sure,” answered David, setting the small, 
still creature back into the eager arms reached out 
for it. 

The lady stood thus, silent a moment, very slender 
and youthful-seeming despite snow-white hair, her 
gentle face bowed above the little dead thing upon her 
bosom. 

“ O Nevil . . . Nevil! ” she whispered at last, and 
sobbed once and thereafter was mute. 

“Was this . . . Sir Nevil’s doing, lady?” ques¬ 
tioned David gently. 


130 The Loring Mystery 

“It was my fault,” she answered, “I angered him, 
you see!” 

“ And so ... he killed your poor little dog ! ” 

“ I should not have angered him! ” she repeated 
drearily. 

“How was it done, lady.?” 

“ With his cane, sir! Though I don’t think he meant 
to strike so . . . very hard. . . . My poor little 
Daphne! You were all I had to love me, except 

Clea! . . . And now-” Here, choking back 

another sob, she looked up at David wistfully. “ 0, 
sir, you are sure — quite sure this is — death ? ” 

“ Quite sure, lady.” 

“ Why, then I need not take her to Jim Crook after 
all. . . . No, I’ll carry her back and . . . bury her. 
Thank you, sir, for your kindness to a very unhappy 
creature-” 

“ Begging your pardon, lady, but I’d like to ax you 
a qvestion! ” 

Mr. Shrig’s tone was so much gentler than usual 
that David, turning to glance at him, saw he had a 
stout leathern wallet in his hand, whence he extracted 
a screw of paper; undoing this, he shook something 
into his palm and, holding it in the moonlight, David 
saw this object was a small, exquisitely wrought gold 
button: 

“Begging your pardon again, lady, but have you 
ever ’appened to see a objec’ like this any wheres, at 
any time.? ” 

Slowly and unwillingly she lifted her gaze from the 
dead animal and, glancing at the button, nodded: 

“ O yes,” she answered, “ this is a button off his 
coat.” 

“You reckernize it, mam?” 

“Yes, it is one of a set he had specially made. I 
should know it anywhere.” 

“And ... off of whose coat did ye say, mam?”^ 




Tells of a Gold Button 131 

“ Why, Sir Nevil’s, sir,” she answered, her gaze upon 
her dead pet again. 

“Not the bottle-green spencer, mam.?^” 

“ No, sir, the blue frock.” 

“Ah . . . the blue frock!” nodded Mr. Shrig. 
“ He ain’t wore the blue frock lately, ’as ’e, mam.? ” 

“No ... I don’t think so, not since his last journey 
to London,” she answered absently, her shapely head 
bowed over the small, still burden in her arms. “ And 
now, gentlemen, if you will permit I will take my poor 
Daphne back. ... I shall bury her to-night.” 

“Thanking you kindly, lady!” quoth Mr. Shrig, 
wrapping up the button and restoring it to its abiding- 
place. “We ’ll come along wi’ you if you say the vord.” 

“Ah no, sir — O no, no, no — please! I shall go 
quicker alone . . . besides, I’m used to solitude. 
Goodnight, sirs, goodnight! ” 

“ Madam, one moment more, I beg! ” said David, 
taking out and unfolding the letter signed ‘ Anticlea.’ 
“Pray, is this Mistress Anticlea’s writing.?” 

“ Indeed no, sir ! Clea scrawls dreadfully.” 

“Do you . . . know this writing, lady.?” 

“No-o!” she whispered in sudden panic, “no — 

unless-ah, why do you question me.? Let me go!” 

And dropping the letter, she sped away swift as she 
had come ahd was soon lost in the grim, black shadows 
of the wood. 

“ And there y’are again! ” nodded Mr. Shrig, and 
pursing his lips he began to whistle softly a merry 
country jig with many elaborate trills and grace-notes, 
while David, picking up the letter, thrust it back into 
his pocket and stood lost in frowning thought until 
roused by his companion’s touch he glanced up, 
frowning still: 

“And he killed her little dog!” said David softly. 

“ And werry nat’ral too, pal — all things considered! ” 

“Ha — natural, d’ye say.? Natural.?” 




132 The Loring Mystery 

“Look’ee, pal, ’tis nat’ral for do^s to bite, ain’t it? 
So ve muzzles ’em! It’s nat’ral for bulls to gore, 
ain’t it? So we rings ’em! It’s nat’ral for tigers to 
devour burning beings, ain’t it? So we hunts ’em down! 
Werry good! It’s all quite nat’ral if you looks at it 
from the right p’int o’ view, and there y’are! ” 

“ Some men are not fit to live! ” said David. 

“No more they ain’t, pal! But you can’t go about 
a-killing of ’em, because ’t would be murder and con- 
seqvently agin’ the law. Them as murders ’angs, 
pal, man or woman, ’igh degree or low! It’s a 
glorious thought — that! ” 

“I don’t know, friend Jasper,” said David in his 
soft drawl, “ I don’t know but that I might kill 
such a man if-” 

“Not you, pal, not you! There’s nothin’ Capital 
about you. You ’re talkin’ vild-like, an’ no wonder, 
for your stummick’s empty. There’s nothing more 
nat’ral than to eat an’ drink, so come on to supper, pal.” 

So they climbed the gate and side by side turned 
into the high-road. 

And now as they went Mr. Shrig, who seemed in 
unusually high spirits, beguiled the way with divers 
snatches of song, flutelike whistlings and other lively 
sallies; whereas David trudged in gloomy silence, 
scowling up at a fugitive moon and hearkening to the 
desolate wail of the rising wind. 

They were close upon the inn of the “ Rearing Horse,” 
whose latticed casements beamed in cheery greeting, 
when David halted suddenly and grasped his com¬ 
panion’s arm: 

“That button?” he demanded. “That gold button 
— where did you find it?” 

“ Lord! ” exclaimed Mr. Shrig, blinking. “ Never 
mind that now, pal, supper’s a-vaiting- 

“ Where did you find it ? ” repeated David, his grasp 
tightening. 




Tells of a Gold Button 133 

“ Why, since you ax me so p’inted, sir,” answered 
Mr. Shrig gravely, ‘‘ I took it from the fist of a dead 
man — a murdered corp’! ” 

“Who — who was he?” 

“ The cove as come towing ashore behind Bill 
Bartrum^s boat. The cove as had been choked to death 
afore ’e reached the river! The cove as everybody 
mistook — and buried — for you ! ” 

Now at this David drew back a step with a strange 
upward motion of the arm as if warding a blow, then 
turning his back he stared up at the moon peeping 
fitfully through the fiying cloud-rack. So silent he 
stood, so rigidly still and for so long that Mr. Shrig 
ventured to touch him at last: 

“ Pal,” said he, “ it’s a windictive vorld, as well I 
know — but there’s comfort in wittles ! And supper 
should be ready ... so come along o’ Jarsper.” 


CHAPTER XX 


Of Ben Bowkee and the Man with a Harelip 

Waking suddenly, David started up in bed with the 
sick horror of his dream still upon him; a nightmare 
wherein he fled from a vast pursuing shape that reached 
forth huge hands, with fingers crooked and hairy, to 
rend and tear; a monstrous thing of terror that 
breathed with a whistling snuffle. 

Thus David, starting to elbow, stared dreadfully 
about him to see no more than the moonlight making 
a pale radiance at his narrow casement, and to hear 
only the riot of wind, near and far, now rising to a 
shrill wall, now sinking to a sobbing moan. Wherefore, 
muttering anathemas upon the wind, David punched 
his pillow and composed himself anew to slumber. But 
the nightmare horror persisted, nay, grew rather the 
more intensified. His mind became a chaos of vague 
fears and dreadful speculations, until at last, de¬ 
spairing of sleep, he groped for the candle and found 
he had left the tinder-box on the mantelshelf; so he 
arose and, having reached it, paused by the window 
to glance up at the sky where a rack of clouds scurried 
before a buffeting wind; to gaze idly away towards 
Loring Chase, a vague mystery of rolling meadow and 
dim wood, and to stare, suddenly intent, at the hedge 
immediately opposite his window, in whose shadow he 
fancied something had moved — was moving . . . and 
then in the darkest part of the hedge a pallid oval 
gleamed in the moonbeams, at sight of which David 
shrank appalled, his nightmare horrors clutching him 
anew . . . for there, peering up through a gap in the 


Of Ben Bowker 135 

hedge, his narrow eyes fixed in their patient, beast-like 
stare, his malformed mouth agape, stood the man with 
the harelip. David almost fancied he could hear the 
whistling snuffle of his breathing. . . . Then face and 
hedge and countryside were blotted out as a cloud 
obscured the moon. But David stood there, motionless 
in the dark, his eyes strained in the one direction; yet 
when at last the moon shone forth again the face had 
vanished. 

David sat upon his bed and shivered; but, little by 
little, there rose within him a great and terrible anger 
such as he had never known in all his twenty-four 
years of life. 

Swiftly and silently he began to dress, not troubling 
to light the candle, his wrath waxing ever more coldly 
fierce, his mind bent upon the one grim purpose. 

Being dressed, he drew the pistol from beneath his 
pillow, took his boots ,beneath his arm and, softly 
opening the door, crept down the stairs. 

The little inn seemed wrapped in slumber; not a 
sound reached him save the moan of wind and the loud 
ticking of a clock somewhere close by. 

Cautiously he loosed bolt and bar, slowly and 
stealthily he opened the door and stepping swiftly 
out closed it behind him. 

The moon chanced to be unclouded, but the front 
of the inn lay in deep shadow, and here stood David 
to glance swiftly about him; thus he presently espied 
what he sought, a distant shambling figure plain to see 
against the white glimmer of the road, and, drawing 
on his boots, set off in instant pursuit with small fear 
of being overheard by reason of the blusterous riot of 
the wind, wherefore he made good speed, keeping to 
the shadowy side of the road. 

Often the moon was obscured by flying cloud, but 
David hurried on, his gaze ever upon that slouching, 
shambling figure so close now that he might distinguish 


136 The Lorlng Mystery 

the fur cap, velveteen coat, and the long-barrelled gun 
upon his shoulder. 

It was after one of these sudden eclipses that David 
halted, suddenly at a loss, for the moon, shining clear 
again, showed him a deserted road; the man in the fur 
cap had vanished. 

But as he stood thus, peering, his keen eyes discerned 
a dim shape that crept before him in the ditch, and, 
fiercely joyful to find him so near, David whipped 
forth his pistol, cocking it as he did so, and stole swiftly 
forward, nearer and nearer, until he was so close that 
he could distinguish what manner of man this was and 
stood dumbfounded, staring in stupefied amazement; 
for in place of fur cap and velveteens this man wore 
a slouched hat and smock-frock; instead of a gun he 
bore a murderous-looking cudgel. 

Now even as David stared thus, scarcely believing 
his eyes, the creeping man vanished round a sharp 
turn in the road; thither David followed and imme¬ 
diately the mystery explained itself, for he saw this: 
A narrow, grassy track barred by a gate that seemed 
familiar; within a yard of this gate shambled a figure 
clad in fur cap and velveteens, gun on shoulder; and 
between this figure and David crept the man in the 
smock-frock — a man who, straightening up, ran 
suddenly forward to leap with murderous cudgel 
uplifted. . . . 

And then the moon was suddenly darkened, but in 
this darkness above the riot of wind rose sounds of 
desperate strife, savage voices, panting, inarticulate; 
crashing blows, a snuffling, gasping cry, a horrible, 
whistling snore, and a voice that panted in fierce 
exultation: 

“And there’s ... for you . . . Tom Yaxley, and 
be damned! . . . And now for . . . t’other on ye!” 

The moon shone out again to show a huge, out- 
sprawled bulk and crouching above it one with face 


Of Ben Bowker 137 

haggard, pallid and -smeared with blood, one who 
laughed, cleared the gate at a bound and, plunging 
into the shadows of Loring Wood, was gone. 

But David had recognised this face and hurried 
forward shouting: 

“Bowker! O, Ben Bowker!” 

Then, guessing whither Bowker went and to what 
purpose, David stepped over Yaxley’s prostrate, 
snoring body and, vaulting the gate in turn, set off at 
speed into the wood. 


CHAPTER XXI 


Tells How Loring Confronted Loring for the 
Third . Time 

Rushing wind that boomed and hissed amid sway¬ 
ing trees which, in their travail, tossed wild branches 
to a fitful moon whose ghostly beam, coming but to 
vanish again, rendered the darkness but the more pro¬ 
found. 

Deafened by this universal uproar, lost and bewil¬ 
dered, David stumbled on haphazard, forcing his way 
through leafy boskages, blundering amid thorny 
tangles, floundering to and fro among mazy thickets 
until at last, though how he knew not, he found 
himself suddenly in the open. Crossing a grassy, 
wind-swept level, he reached a wall of no great height, 
and grasping the coping drew himself up. Before him 
was a garden, into which he dropped forthwith and, 
following a dim path bordered by yew trees, clipped 
to fantastic shapes, reached a flight of steps that 
brought him to a terrace beyond which loomed a great 
house that he knew must be,Loring Chase. Approach¬ 
ing on this side he was screened from the buffeting 
wind, and paused beside a stone balustrade to glance 
up at the gloomy structure rising before him, a place of 
darkness with not so much as a glimmer of light any¬ 
where. Wondering at its desolate aspect, he hurried, 
soft-treading, along the wide front and, turning a 
corner, halted suddenly, for before him was a window, 
dark like the rest, but with its lattices wide open. 

So, then, despite his haste, Ben Bowker was before 
him f Creeping stealthily to the window, David 


A Third Meeting 139 

leaned in to peer and listen: Darkness and silence. 

! Thus stood he a while hesitating, then, swinging himself 
over the sill, David stepped into the room. A small 
, chamber in whose glimmering dusk (for the moon was 
partially obscured) he made out the dim shape of 
furniture; a tall press, a table, chairs, a cabinet 
direly suggestive of a crouching figure, and in one 
corner—an open door. 

Very slowly David crossed to this door, his feet 
silenced by thick rugs, but all at, once something caught 
softly at his feet, and stooping he picked up a hat, and 
holding it in the feeble moonlight saw it for a soft, 
weatherbeaten slouched hat such as waggoners might 
wear; dropping the hat David whipped out his pistol, 
staring towards the dim doorway and expecting to 
behold one clad in torn smock-frock. . . . So, then, 
Bowker was here beyond all doubt. . . . David stepped 
through the open doorway, and thus found him¬ 
self in a carpeted passage utterly dark and narrow, 
for stretching his arms he could feel panelled walls to 
right and left. Motionless he stood, holding his 
breath and staring upon the dark wide-eyed and with 
every sense alert but with nothing to hear, not even 
the ticking of a clock. And little by little there grew 
within him a sense of coming evil, for something in the 
dreadful, unnatural stillness, the hushed and deadly 
silence of this great house, struck him as ominous, 
filled him with a growing expectancy of indefinable 
horror, and he yearned passionately to be out and 
away in the buffeting wind. . . . And then somewhere 
in the pitchy darkness before him was a faint sound 
that was neither of foot, nor breathing ... a vague 
stirring, a soft, indescribable whisper of sound. . . . 

Pistol in right hand while left felt his way along the 
panelling, David crept forward, slowly, silently, his 
every nerve strung for swift action. . . . Suddenly 
his guiding hand plunged into empty space ... he 


140 The Loring Mystery 

had reached the threshold of a room . . . between 
close-drawn curtains he sensed, rather than saw, a 
feeble glimmer of light. With his gaze upon this, he 
stood poised for a leap . . . listening, but heard only 
the rattle of a distant casement and the dismal 
moaning of the wind. And yet it seemed to him that 
something stirred again somewhere in the darkness 
. . . a breathing presence. . . . He must go for¬ 
ward or turn and fly. . . . David crept forward. 
Softly, step by step, with shaking hand outstretched 
before him, step by step until he stopped all at once, 
thrilling with horror, for his quivering fingers had 
touched something at last. But what? ... Was it 
silk? ... Was it fur? . . . The little, dead dog? 

. . . But what was it doing here? Once again he 
reached out tremulous fingers. . . . And then he 
knew. . . . Hair! God in heaven ... a head 
that swayed horribly beneath his touch ... a 
starched frill ... a horrible, sticky moisture! . . . 

David uttered a hoarse gasp that seemed to find an 
echo close by; next moment the curtains were swept 
aside for the moon’s pallid beam to show him Anticlea, 
her long hair wild-tossed, her night-robe awfully 
bedabbled . . . and between them, lolling back in 
his great elbow-chair, with wide eyes glaring sight¬ 
lessly at the ceiling, his pale lips curled as in sardonic 
mockery, and the silver hilt of a dagger gleaming 
among the blood-stained frills at his throat . . . Sir 
Nevil Loring. 


CHAPTER XXII 


Of Suspicion 

David had a moment’s consciousness of moaning 
wind and of that distant, rattling casement, then from 
the pallid lips of the shivering creature before him 
issued a low, inarticulate whimpering as she stared 
from that awful, lolling thing in the chair to those 
hateful blotches that fouled her white draperies; and 
she shuddered away, back and back until stayed by 
the wall; crouching there she covered her face with 
twitching hands, while David stood by rigid, waiting 
for her to scream, but presently she raised her head, 
and thus, for a breathless moment, they viewed each 
other, eye to eye: 

“You?” she breathed at last. “Ah, God . . . why 
— why did you-? ” 

“ I ? ” repeated David in hoarse whisper, recoiling 
before her look, “I? You — you think-” 

Slowly she raised white arm and pointed to his 
left hand, and glancing thither he saw it horribly 
smirched. 

“ Something waked me . . .” she whispered, “ I 
was afraid ... at last I crept down ... in the 

dark . . . and then — O God-” The words 

seemed to choke her and she covered her face again: 
“O, he was cruel . . . hateful . . . too wicked to 

live . . . but now- ! Go ... go and pray 

God’s forgiveness — as I will! . . . Go! ” 

“Yes!” mumbled David, “Yes, I’ll go! But 
first it would be better ... if I . . . take this 






142 The Loring Mystery 

with me!” And he pointed blood-stained finger to 
the gleaming dagger-hilt. 

Now beholding this, she cried out below her breath, 
all strength seemed to forsake her suddenly, and she 
fell on her knees. 

“ That! ” she whispered brokenly. “ That — yes 
. . . O God, it is mine. I lost it — lost it in the 
wood ... I swear I lost it in the wood! Did you — 
find it F Ah — did you F ” 

“Yes, lady — I found it . . . five minutes ago — 
here! And now I ’ll take it with me! ” So saying 
David set his teeth and, grasping the dreadful thing, 
wrenched it free; holding it in shaking hand he 
looked about for the wherewithal to cover it. And 
thus he espied a crumpled sheet of paper upon the 
fioor, and snatching it up wrapped it about the reeking 
steel. “As to my guilt or innocence,” said he, cross¬ 
ing to the window, “that is between God and — you !” 

“What do you mean.^” she panted. “Why do you 
look at me so.^^ What — do you — mean.?” 

“ Go back to your bed,” he whispered. “ Burn that 
. . . that robe you wear, and — wait for the morn¬ 
ing.” 

“Why . . . O, why do you look at me so.?” she 
pleaded. “ As if . . . Ah, God, as if-” 

But laying finger on lip, David thrust the betraying 
dagger into his pocket, opened the lattice, and stepped 
out into the clean, sweet wind. 

For a moment he paused to stare vaguely around 
like one new-waking from a haunted slumber, then 
turned to be gone. But now the shock of it all, the 
horror, the memory of her whimpering terror, her 
haggard fear, the pitiful inadequacy of her words and 
the dreadful suspicions they engendered, sickened him 
to faintness; he lurched to the house wall and leaned 
there half-buried in rustling ivy, ages old, that grew 
very thick hereabouts. 



Of Suspicion 143 

The far-flung shadow of the great house lay all 
I about him, for the moon was sinking, and yet as he 
leaned thus amid the shivering leaves, it seemed that, 

I within this lengthening shadow a dim shape stole to¬ 
wards him, a furtive, creeping figure moving on swift 
and stealthy feet . . . David shifted his pistol to his 
left hand, watching this stealthy approach — judging 
his distance . . . Another twelve paces and they would 
be face to face . . . another three . . . 

David leapt and smote, a flush hit beneath the ear 
and, uttering a gasp, the man went down headlong and 
lay with arms wide-spread; then came David to stoop 
and peer and recognised him for Sir Nevil’s young 
secretary, Mr. Maulverer. 

Away—^away from the shadows of this accursed 
house fled David, swift and silent, across the terrace 
and down the steps, along the yew-walk and so to the 
wall; a leap with arms upflung, a desperate scrambling 
and he was astride the coping, staring back for sign of 
pursuit. But the great house loomed up, stark and 
grim against the sinking moon, with never a gleam of 
light and no sound to hear save that distant casement 
rattling to every fitful gust. 

And now, as he hurried on again, his mind busied 
itself on a new line of thought wherein he found strange 
comfort; on this wise: 

Maulverer! What would bring the secretary stealing 
abroad at such an hour.? And then again (God for¬ 
give him!) he had forgotten the hat that he had found. 

. . . Ben Bowker’s hat beyond all mistaking ... he 
had been there also! Bowker, the man who had vowed 
to commit this very deed . . . who had waited but 
the opportunity! But the dagger? Her dagger? 
Well, she had lost it in the wood, her inadequate sub¬ 
terfuge had been very fact! . . . She had lost it. in 
the wood and someone had found it. . . . The ex- 
convict? The secretary? Be that as it may, the 


144 The Loring Mystery 

dagger had been hers and therefore must vanish. . . . 
But how.^ . . . He would throw it into the first pond 
he came across. . . . Yet, no! Ponds might be 
dragged and, besides, are apt to go dry. . . . Then in 
the crevice of some tree, or driven deep beneath the 
roots. ... No again, for trees were always blowing 
down or being felled. . . . Then he must bury it 
somewhere. . . . And yet dogs might scratch it up, a 
plough discover it. Then it must be some deep body 
of water, a river . . . the sea. Meanwhile he must 
guard it night and day. . . . This dagger she had 
lost, this hateful thing which someone had found — 
and used so horribly I . . . Ay, but who ? 

Thus as David tramped on through the long night, 
by lonely field-path and winding bye-lane, heedless of 
direction, he was preyed upon by a thousand doubts, 
fears and suspicions. But of one thing he was assured, 
as he told himself over and over again, namely: 

Whosoever had found this accursed dagger, she had 
most surely lost it. 


CHAPTER XXIII 

Describes Poley Feemus, an Heirloom 

In a misty dawn, beneath the shelter of a hedge 
crouched David, spent with weariness, for he had tra¬ 
velled fast and far, his mind a prey to stark horror, 
for reaction had come and Murder stood before him in 
all its appalling hideousness. In his mind he saw again 
that ghastly, lifeless, lolling thing leering sardonically 
heavenward with sightless eyes and parted lips; again 
before him rose the shape of one who crouched abject 
amid the splendour of her veiling hair that yet might 
never hide the awful stains that fouled her; he seemed 
again to hear the misery of fear in her voice, to read it 
in her wide eyes. His shaking fingers crept to touch 
that loathly thing in his pocket . . . this murderous 
steel that had been — hers. Thus David crouched in 
the dawn, weary of body, sick of mind, full of awful 
doubt and a growing dread of the future; he seemed 
to hear again the voice of Jasper Shrig: 

“ Them as murders ’angs, man or voman, ’igh degree 
or low! ” 

The rope and gallows! . . . The creaking gibbet! 
Horror upon horror! 

A bird chirped sleepily from an adjacent thicket, to 
be answered afar; and presently, lifting his head, 
David saw a soft radiance in the east flushing slowly 
from purple to scarlet, pink to gold; and as this 
radiance waxed, there arose, from dewy brake and 
thicket and darkling wood, a joyous chirping, a fluty 
piping ever sweeter, clearer, louder, until gradually 
the air thrilled with the ecstatic chorus; the sullen 



146 The Loring Mystery 

mists thinned, rolled up and vanished, a level beam of 
glory shot athwart the world — and it was day. 

And with day’s advent David felt something of his 
gloomy fears lifted from him, and hearkening to the joy¬ 
ous carolling of the birds, hope was new-born within 
him. So rose he to stretch wearied limbs, to lift 
aching head and look up at a heaven glorious with 
dawn and to read there a promise of better things to 
be. Then, squaring his shoulders, he strode on again, 
keeping his face turned' towards the radiant east; 
but in a little, finding himself utterly worn out, he 
seated himself beside the way and began to revolve 
again the problem how best to dispose of the silver- 
hafted dagger. 

He was sitting thus, chin in hand, staring at the 
dusty road before him, when he heard a grind of wheels, 
the plodding hoof-strokes of a horse, and glancing up 
beheld a hooded van approaching, drawn by a great, 
black horse of truly heroic proportions, surprisingly 
sparse as to mane and tail and slim as to legs; a re¬ 
markable animal who moved with the greatest delib¬ 
eration and made prodigious to-do about it, arching 
his neck, tossing his head and lifting his hoofs with 
so lofty an action that he seemed to contemn the 
earth he trod. 

The haughty quadruped was being driven, or rather 
cajoled along, by a pleasant-faced, bright-eyed fellow 
who dangled gaitered legs and whistled cheerily until 
his steed, objecting to the appearance of a certain 
tree, lifted both fore-legs together higher than ever 
and seemed determined never to put them down again; 
whereat spake the Carter: 

“Avast, Polly Feemus! Belay, Poll! Not so much 
on it, now! Don’t forget as you ain’t no colt! An’ 
so early in the marnin’, tu! ” At which reproaches 
the sagacious animal condescended to assume his nor¬ 
mal posture, albeit unwillingly, and coming directly 


Describes Polly Feemus 147 

opposite David’s resting-place, halted majestically 
and snorted. 

“There’s sperrit for ye!” quoth the Carter, nod¬ 
ding cheerily to David and pointing to his horse with 
the whip, “and ’im nigh as old as I be!” Here the 
animal in question turned to view David with a round, 
disparaging eye and snorted louder than ever. 

“ A remarkable animal! ” said David, smiling. 

“ Why, so ’e is! ” nodded the Carter, eyeing David’s 
bandaged head and haggard looks. “ But how’s your¬ 
self, messmet?” 

“Well enough, thank you!” 

“And that ain’t arl it might be, I rackon. Is your 
’ead ’urted bad?” 

“It is better — so much better that I can dispense 
with this bandage,” answered David, and taking it 
off he cast the grimy thing disgustedly away. “ I must 
look a miserable object!” he sighed, passing his hand 
across stubbly chin. 

“ So so ! ” nodded the Carter cheerfully, “ I ’ave seen 
worse—once or twice. Come fur?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Goin’ fur?” 

“ Anywhere.” 

“Why, that may be no further than the four-wents 
yonder or beyond the Ante-podes, which be a goodish 
step from ’ere. But if you’m for anywheeres Lewes 
way, why . . . come aboard, messmet.” 

“ Thank you! ” said David gratefully, and clam¬ 
bered up forthwith. 

“Now then, Polly Feemus!” said the Carter, pok¬ 
ing the horse very gently with his whip. “ Stir your 
stumps — heave ahead. Poll!” 

At which cheery admonition the haughty animal 
shivered disdainfully, lifted one leg very high, put it 
down again, lifted the other, snorted contemptuously 
and finally condescended to start. 


148 The Loring Mystery 

“ You ain’t lookin’ what you might call partic’lar 
bobbish, shipmet! ” opined the Carter after they had 
creaked some distance. 

“ I need a shave! ” said David. 

‘‘Which I wun’t deny!” answered the Carter, pass¬ 
ing complacent finger and thumb over his own newly 
shaven face. “ There’s Joe ’Oskins over to Glynde, 
agin the churchyard wall . . . easy shaving, one 
penny I J oe ’andles a razor very ship-shape I ” 

“ I must go there! ” said David absently. 

“ We ’re a-goin’ 1 ” answered the Carter, “ di-rect, 
shipmet — or should I ought to make it ‘ sir ’ ? ” he 
enquired. 

“ Make it ‘ shipmate ’! ” answered David. “ And 
my name is David! ” 

“Very good, shipmet — No, no. Poll, not this 
mamin’l” he broke off, for his horse had pulled up 
before a farmyard gate. “ There’s an ’orse for you, 
shipmet! ” he exclaimed as they j ogged on again. 
“ Knows every cottage, every house and inn ’twixt ’ere 
and Lewes, ’e do. There ain’t no animal like Poll no- 
wheers, I du believe. Ye see, he’s a sort of a family 
heirloom, messmet. My feyther Dan’l druv ’e afore 
me, and when my feyther took an’ died ’e left Poll to 
me in ’is will, as ye might say. My feyther Dan’l 
arlways said as Polly Feemus were a blood ’orse, and 
blood begets action, and Lord! Poll’s got so much 
action ’e can ’ardly get along fur it. But if ’e’s slow 
’e’s sure, and a very good ’oss ’e be—bar ’is name. 
But hows’ever, Polly Feemus my feyther bought ’im 
and Polly Feemus ’e’ll die . . . Though I dunno why 
‘Polly’ and I dunno why ‘Feemus’, seein’ as ’e ain’t 
a mare. I’ve wondered frequent what like o’ woman 
she was — this here Polly Feemus.” 

Pol 3 q)hemus plodded majestically on, maintaining 
the same deliberate pace up hill and down; stopping 
of his own accord at the gate of some lonely farm or 


Describes Polly Feemus 149 

cottage bowered in creeping vines, whereupon the 
Carrier would descend to receive or deliver divers par¬ 
cels and packages with words of cheery greeting for 
all and sundry, man, woman or child. Thus the heavy 
waggon rumbled and creaked past ancient barn and 
fragrant rick-yard, halting beside sunny village-greens 
where children ceased their play to come running with 
shrill acclamations for both horse and driver, followed 
by bustling housewives and buxom matrons full of 
domestic affairs to whom the Carrier delivered not only 
parcels but dispensed familiar gossip and local news 
as well; thereafter, having coaxed the haughty Poly¬ 
phemus to renewed action, off and away amid cheery 
farewells. And so on again by tree-shaded roads and 
winding ways until the sun was high: 

“A carrier’s life seems to be a very happy one,” 
said David at last. 

“It be naun so bad, shipmet.” 

“Yet you have not always been a carrier, I guess? 
You were a sailor once, surely? ” 

“Ay! Run away to sea afore I knowed any better 
— ship’s boy, cabin-boy, powder-monkey, that was me. 
I’m ’oping to run alongside an old shipmate o’ mine 
’twixt here and Lewes to-day, one o’ Nelson’s men — 
loved me like a feyther ’e did, too! Ah, many’s the 
rope’s-ending ’e ’s given me afore ’e lost ’is leg at 
Trafalgar — treated me like his own son did Bo’sun 
Jerry! ‘Jim,’ ’e used to say, ‘Jim, consarn your 
young ’ide, you may be Crook by name but you’ll 
never be crook by natur’ whiles old Jerry’s aboord 
to larrup ye!” 

“ So you are Jim Crook ? ” 

“That’s me, messmate! Jim Crook, Carrier, Lor- 
ing, Sussex — that’s all me! ” 

“ Then you know Loring Chase ? ” 

“I do, shipmet — enough to steer wide of it except 
when wanted.” 


The Loring Mystery 


150 

“Why?” 

“Because the devil lives there — though ’e goes by 
the name o’ Sir Nevil Loring. Nobody never is over¬ 
anxious to run a-thwart his hawse, messmet, and them 
as does suffers for it! The wonder is someone don’t 
— snuff him out 1 There’s many a poor chap as would 
be mighty glad to scuttle and sink him to Davy Jones 
everlastingly, amen! . . . Ah, that they would I ” 

“Do you . . . know of any such?” 

“Well, there be the secretary gentleman, young Mr. 
Mauleyverer for one—^most especial! I chanced to 
see ’im once, standing be’ind Sir Nevil’s chair ’e was, 
with his two fists fair shakin’ wi’ rage, ’is teeth show¬ 
ing like any vicious dog’s, and in ’is eyes, shipmet — 
bloody murder! A sight not to be forgot, shipmet! ” 

Maulverer, to be sure! Maulverer who had crept so 
stealthily within a few yards of where it lolled staring 
heavenwards with its awful, dead eyes! 

“Are you—often at Loring Chase?” questioned 
David, a little hoarsely. 

“Off an’ on! Ye see, I know a bit about doctoring 
’osses an’ sich, shipmet.” 

“ How long has Mr. Maulverer lived there ? ” 

“ Long enough to be precious sweet on Miss ’Clea. 
My wife’s cousin Ann is Miss ’Clea’s maid, and she 
knows! Says as ’e be fair mad for ’er, she do.” 

“ Ah! ” said David softly. 

“Ar!” nodded Jim Crook, “though ’e don’t dare 
show it, because Sir Nevil’s got ’is own eye in that 
quarter.” 

“Great God!” ejaculated David. 

“Eh? What now, shipmet?” 

“Sir Nevil? He—he is an old man!” 

“ Some men be never too olj for it, messmet! 
’Specially if the ’ooman be young and as good-lookin’ 
as Miss ’Clea — poor soul, I pities ’er! Ar, I pities 
both on ’em — ’specially the little ’un!” 


Describes Polly Feemus 151 

I “Which?” 

I “The little ’un — Mrs. Belindy.” 

■ “And the other.?” 

li “She’s different, can tak’ care of herself, shipmet. 
!Why, I see her take her ’orse-whip to Sir Nevil once, 
ay—^strike me deaf an’ dumb if I didn’t, Ar, and 
I she’d ha’ used it, too, but for Mrs. Belindy . . . And 
him a-laughing arl the time! And me ’appening to be 
I there doctoring one o’ the ’osses. O, a fierce, do-or-be- 
i damnecf creetur is Miss ’Clea, fiery as ’er ’air . . . kill 
' a man as soon as look at ’im if needful—^eh? Why, 
what alls ye, messmet.? Are ye cold.? Sick.?” 

“No — yes!” stammered David, “I — I am a little 
over-tired, I think-” 

“Then you needs ale, shipmet, ale’s your mark — 
in a tankard! Shiver my tops’ls, but I could do a 
pint myself! And they draws rare good stuff at a 
little ’ouse I knows on. Heave ahead. Poll . . . ‘The 
Bull’, Polly Peemus, the B-U- double L — Bull!” 
cried Mr. Crook, whereupon Polyphemus, that sagaci¬ 
ous animal, snorted, cocked one ear and set off at such 
unexpected speed that David was nearly thrown from 
his seat. 

“ There’s an ’oss for you! ” exclaimed Mr. Crook 
. . . “ knows ‘ The Bull ’ as well as I do ! Knows as 
Tom Bingley as keeps ‘ The Bull ’ arlways ’as summat 
for ’im better nor water! A rare fav’rite is Polly 
Feemus arl along the road. . . . And there is ‘The 
Bull’ — top o’ the ’ill yonder , . . and . . . why, 
blow my dickey if there ain’t the Bo’sun, yonder^— 
a-sitting in the ditch a-waiting for me! ” 

Looking whither his companion pointed, David at 
first could see little more than an extremely shiny 
glazed hat which, as he watched, was flourished above 
grassy ditch and from the vicinity of which arose a 
deep-lunged roar: 

“Jimmy ahoy!” 




152 The Loring Mystery 

At the which stentorian bellow the echoes awoke 
and Polyphemus came to an abrupt halt; hereupon 
up rose the Carrier in his seat to flourish whip with an 
answering hail of: 

“Ahoy it is, Bo’sun!” 

And now as they approached, up from the ditch 
arose a shortish, broad-shouldered, red-faced man in 
glazed hat and trim, square-cut blue jacket ornamented 
by two rows of gleaming buttons that winked jovially 
with his every movement; clambering forth of the 
ditch, with some ado, he discovered a pair of immensely 
wide striped trousers, one leg of which flapped about 
the wooden pin which did duty for the limb he had 
lost at Trafalgar. Bolt upright he stood, and very 
trig from enormous pigtail to solitary, well-polished 
buckled shoe, and (although distant but a bare six 
yards) set hand to mouth and bellowed louder than 
ever: 

“ Starboard, Jimmy, starboard! Luff ’er, lad— so! 
Now haul your wind and lemme come alongside.” 

The Carrier, having duly pulled up on the right- 
hand side of the road, tossed aside the reins and sprang 
down to grasp the Bo’sun’s flst; and so they beamed 
upon each other and clapped each other resoundingly 
upon the shoulder like the old shipmates they were. 

“ Sink me,” exclaimed the Bo’^sun, “ ah, you can 
scuttle and drownd me if ye look a day older than when 
I used to larrup your young ’ide. ... If we ’ad a 
rope’s-end handy I’d give ye one or two for old times 
sake, lad!” 

“And shiver me,” exclaimed the Carrier, “if you 
don’t look as staunch and seaworthy as you did that 
day we bore down upon they French and Spanishers — 
barring your larboard spar, o’ course! ” 

“And ’oo’s your young gen’elman?” enquired the 
Bo’sun, touching his hat to David. 

“Travellin’ wi’ me to Lewes, Jerr}^-, name o’ Mr. 


Describes Polly Feemus 153 

David.” Hereupon David impulsively stretched out 
his hand, which the Bo’sun shook heartily. 

“ And now,” said the Bo’sun, “ stand by to lend me 
a hand and I’ll come aboard. If you give me a heave 
astam, Jimmy, and the young gen’elman lends me a 
haul forrard, I’ll make it in the twinkle of a rope’s- 
end.” 

Hereupon, with much heave-ho-ing and yo-ho-ho- 
ing, together with sundry wild flaps and flourishes of 
the Bo’sun’s wooden leg, the intricate evolution was 
happily accomplished; the pufiing mariner being safe 
aboard between David and the Carrier, Polyphemus 
was induced to stir his lordly stumps and, while the 
vehicle creaked and rumbled upon its appointed course, 
ensued the following conversation: 

Jim: Now as I looks at you again, Jerry, you seems 
a bit wore and worrited-like — you ain’t gone an’ 
married that ’ere widder yet — eh.^^ 

Bo’sun: No, Jim, no, Jimmy lad. Ye see, his 
honour the Cap’n (God bless ’im!) ain’t got no leanings 
matrimonially. And if ’e ain’t — I ain’t! And won’t! 

Jim: Why not, messmet.? 

Bo’sun: Why not.? Lord love ye, ’ow could I look 
arter ’im as ’e deserves to be looked arter if I took 
up wi’ matrimony.? It couldn’t be, Jimmy, no ’ow. 
Ye see, the Cap’n (God bless ’is eyes an’ limbs!) takes 
a power o’ looking arter . . . ’specially now Miss 
Cleone’s married ... a bit lonesome of a’ evening. 

Jim: Ay, ay — very nat’ral. But ’e were alius very 
partic’ler about ’is clothes, I mind—^’specially boots. 

Bo’sun : ’E were, Jim! And ’e is 1 But it ain’t that 
so much as ’is mind, Jimmy. Sich a con-founded 
lowness o’ sperrits, messmet, as can’t be explained 
only by one o’ two things . . . either ’e’s fell in love 
at last — which I doubts, messmet — or he’s a-goin’ to 
fight a dool — which God forbid ! 

Jim: A doo-el, Jerry.? Blow my dickey! ’Oo with.? 


154 The Loring Mystery 

Bo’sun: Why, with that ’ere little, cursed Sir Nevil 
Loring. They say ’e ’s a dead shot at any distance 
. . . and ’im sich a whipper-snapper! And the Cap’n 
(Lord love ’im!) was never no ’and with a pistol. . . . 
And him such a fine figger of a man! 

Jim : And what’s Sir Nevil been a-doing of now? 

Bo’sun: Lord knows! But last time as ’e bears 
away for town, ’e runs foul o’ Her Grace of Camber- 
hurst — though ’ow I dunno. But they’ve alius ’ated 
each other, him and her, since they was boy and gal — 
ah, like p’isen! Well, the Cap’n an’ me, being in town, 
bears up for Her Grace, as is ever our custom, d’ye 
see, and finds ’er in a rare tantrum, a reg’lar snorter, 
messmet! “A man like Nevil Loring,” says she, “a 
foul monster like that ought to be took in ’and! ” she 
says. “If I was a man — which thank God I’m not,” 
says she, “ I’d call ’im out and shoot ’im! ” she says. 
“ That misfort’nate girl,” says she. “ The man’s a 
blaster o’ innercence! ” says she, stamping ’er little 
foot and waving ’er little fist . . . and then, catching 
sight of me, messmet, she bears down on me, runs 
me aboard and bundles me out o’ the room, neck an’ 
crop, ’ide and ’air, stem and stam, as you might say, 
Jimmy. After which the Cap’n comes out mighty 
glum, come ’ome glummer, comes down ’ere glummest 
. . . and now there ’e is at “ The Bull ” along o’ the 
young Vis-count and Mr. Barnabas, and if this dbn’t 
mean a dool, I dunno nothing at all, that’s all! 

Jim: A doo-el. . . . Lord save us! 

Bo’sun: So ye see, Jimmy, I’m worrited we’ doo 
reason, messmet. 

Jim: And no wonder, Jerry. There ain’t nobody 
like the Cap’n. 

Bo’sun: Nor never will be, and you can lay to that, 
my lad. 

Here, becoming aware of David, the Bo’sun turned 
and laid a hand on his sleeve. 


Describes Polly Feemus 155 

“ Young sir,” said he, touching the brim of his shiny 
hat, “you will p’r’aps ex-cuse two old shipmets a- 
gabbing, but we don’t see each other every day.” 

“ Why, truly! ” answered David, laying his own 
hand upon the Bo’sun’s. “Pray don’t trouble about 
me. And, Bo’sun Jerry, it is an honour to meet a 
sailor who fought at Trafalgar.” 

The Bb’sun’s eyes twinkled and he touched hat-brim 
again. 

“Thank’ee, young sir! And Jimmy Crook were in 
it, too!” 

“Indeed?” said David, glancing at the jovial 
Carrier with new interest, “were you, indeed?” 

“I were!” nodded the Carrier, a little self-con¬ 
sciously, “though I didn’t lose a leg like Jerry, nor 
yet an arm, like his honour the Cap’n.” 

“Jimmy sarved one o’ the starboard quarter-deck 
carronades,” added the Bo’sun. 

“And pray what is your captain’s name?” enquired 
David. 

‘^Captain the Honourable John Chumley!” an¬ 
swered the Bo’sun, touching his hat. 

“R.N. I” added the Carrier, touching his. “And 
’ere we are; at Glynde! ” said he, as they turned into a 
quiet village street. “And yonder’s ‘The Bull’ . . . 
and over there agin’ the churchyard wall is Joe ’Oskins 
. . . easy shavin’ . . . one penny!” 

“Why, then,” said David, preparing to descend, 
“Joe Hoskins shall earn a penny at once.” 

“ Why, shipmet,” demurred the Carrier gently, “ I 
thought mebbe as ’ow we’d wet our whistles first . . . 
companionable-like? ” 

“ With all my heart,” answered David, “ and at my 
expense, please.” 

But this the Bo’sun would by no means permit, and 
having got himself safely to earth, led the way into a 
cosy tap-room full of odd nooks and corners, a homely 


156 The Loring Mystery 

place presided over by a stout, motherly person whom 
he saluted with a gallant flourish of the glazed hat and 
addressed variously as his bonny lass and my dear 
ma’m. 

I was thinkin’,” said Jim Crook as the three foam¬ 
ing tankards were set before them, ‘‘as a bite of 
bread ’n cheese would n’t nowise do none on us no ’arm, 
p’r’aps? ” 

“ Infinite good, rather! ” said David, and ordered it 
forthwith. So down they sat all three, and a right 
joyous, hearty meal they made of it until, what with 
the wholesome fare and honest good-fellowship, David 
felt himself a new man. 

At last the tankards being empty and the bread and 
cheese all gone, the Carrier rose to attend to his busi¬ 
ness. 

“In ’arf an hour, Mus’ David,” said he, “we’ll be 
ready for to square-away for Lewes — eh, Jerry.^” 

“Aye, aye!” answered the Bo’sun, and touching 
his hat he stumped cheerily away with Crook the 
Carrier, leaving David to seek the much-needed min¬ 
istrations of the barber. 

He found Mr. Hoskins leaning dejectedly in the 
doorway of his cottage, whistling low and mournfully, 
a bony, somewhat plaintive person who, espying a 
customer, sighed and, beckoning ruefully, led the way 
into his somewhat dim and depressing operating cham¬ 
ber where, having tied himself up in a sprigged apron, 
he ceased his dirge to murmur sadly: 

“Your coat an’ neck-’ankerchief, sir!” David re¬ 
moved them and was in the act of laying coat across 
chair-back when his hand encountered a bulky object 
in the breast-pocket, whereupon he started, frowned 
and put on his coat again immediately; at which the 
dejected barber seemed to take mournful umbrage. 

“Your garmink will be quite safe ’ere, sir,” he sighed 
plaintively, “ I ain’t no bandite, bandyleerio, nor yet 


Describes Polly Feemus 157 

a briggin. . . . Owing to a weakness o’ my innards 
I’m only a barber and, wherefore and therefore, not in 
the ’abit o’ committin’ larceny pettit or otherwise.” 

“ Quite so! ” nodded David gravely, “ but I prefer 
to wear my coat, thank you.” 

So David was shaved, his hair trimmed; and view¬ 
ing himself thereafter in the small mirror, he found 
his appearance sufficiently improved. 

Mr. Hoskins received his guerdon with a doleful 
murmur of thanks and David went forth into the sun¬ 
shine. But now, by reason of the hateful thing in his 
pocket, the day had lost its charm and he walked with 
head down-bent. Busied thus with troubled thought 
he returned to the inn, but seeing no sign of Jim 
Crook or the Bo’sun, strolled into the yard, where 
stood a magnificently appointed and very dusty car¬ 
riage from which the ostlers were unharnessing a pair 
of foam-spattered horses whose sweating flanks and 
panting distress told of a long journey at furious 
speed. 

‘‘ Crool, I calls it! ” quoth an ostler. 

<c nodded one in a smart, albeit dusty livery, 

flicking smart cockaded hat with a handkerchief of 
vivid hue, “if they ’adn’t been blood’osses they’d ha’ 
been dead ’osses ten mile back! ” 

“ And no error! ” added a groom, stooping to dust 
his smart top-boots. “ But vhen ’er Grice says ‘ quick ’ 
— it’s to be danged quick, neck or nothing! ” 

David sauntered on and presently found himself in 
a small paddock where ducks waddled and quacked, 
an aged horse cropped contentedly and hens clucked 
comfortably about a huge hayrick that soared aloft 
filling the air with fragrance; now against this rick 
stood a ladder most invitingly. The place was quiet 
and secluded, and what place better for thought than 
a hayrick.^ David mounted forthwith and lying out¬ 
stretched, secure from espial or interruption, began 


158 The Loring Mystery 

once more to revolve the problem of where and how he 
might do away with the dagger. 

Borne to him upon the stilly air came the good, 
homely sounds of the sleepy village; a murmur of 
friendly voices, the snort of a horse, a faint lowing of 
cows from remote pastures, the rattle of chain and 
clank of bucket where someone drew water from a well. 
. . , David sat up suddenly. ... 

The Carrier and Bo’sun Jerry would be waiting 
him by now. . . . David sighed and moved only that 
he might peer from the rick. . . . Yes, there was the 
gleam of the Bo’sun’s hat in the yard. . . . Another 
moment and his hoarse bellow reached David’s ears, but 
he never stirred. And thus after some while he heard 
afar the grind of wheels, the hoof-strokes of a horse so 
extremely deliberate that he knew could be none other 
than Polyphemus plodding majestically Lewes-wards. 
Then David sighed and closed his eyes; very soon he 
must be trudging the roads again, but for the present 
he would take his ease. ... For he knew at last 
where he would hide the dagger. . . . The one and 
only place where he might bury it and its incriminating 
evidence from the light of day — for ever. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


In Which the Reader Will Find Mention of Two 
Old Friends 

‘‘Aha, John Chumley . . . stay, Jack! For shame, 
John!” 

David started, crawled to the edge of the rick and 
peered over. Immediately below him was a one-armed 
man in the very act of climbing the ladder, a tall, 
dignified gentleman, despite his empty sleeve, clad in 
a blue coat of excellent cut and fit, and who, as David 
watched, descended from the ladder and, turning, 
removed his curly-brimmed hat and bowed ceremoni¬ 
ously to a very small personage whose small head 
was tied up in a vast bonnet, whose small mittened 
hands were clenched into diminutive fists with which 
she smote the air fiercely one after the other, halt¬ 
ing at the same moment the better to stamp small, san¬ 
dalled foot. 

“ So, Captain Chumley! ” cried she, with a flash of 
bright eyes from the depths of her bonnet. “ So, sir, 
you’d run away, would you? . . . Not a word, John! 
You’d actually dare to avoid me, would you?. . . 
Hold your tongue, sir! And to climb a stack, sir — at 
your time o’ life! So undignified in a middle-aged 
gentleman — so cowardly! For shame, John! What 
d’ye mean by it ? ” 

“Why, your Grace,” began the Captain mildly, “I 
merely-” 

“ Tush, sir! Here have I driven hither at breakneck 
speed, here have I been bumped and bruised and j ogged 



i6o The Loring Mystery 

and jolted for miles, here have I nearly killed my poor 
horses for your unworthy sake and you instantly climb 
a haystack at sight of me — ungrateful wretch! ” 

“ But, my dear Duchess, if you will permit me one 
word, I say if I may be allowed one ob-” 

“ Pray, what are you doing here, in the first place, 
John ? ” 

‘‘ My dear creature, for the matter o’ that, I say as 
regards this little excursion of mine, I can explain 
in-” 

“ Little excursion, sir! ” repeated the small Duchess, 
with another stamp of foot and flourish of fist. ‘‘Little 
excursion, indeed! O, Jack Chumley, what damnable 
folly would you commit?” 

“ Indeed, mam, since you ask me I hasten to reassure 
you-” 

“Fiddlesticks, sir! You are here to fight. . . . 
Silence, John! Moved by foolish, wicked, thoughtless 
words of mine, you are here to fight a miserable, little, 
devilish creature who will kill you. Jack, kill you as 
sure as death . . . and delight to do it! He will kill 
you. Jack Chumley! ” 

“Not necessarily, mam!” answered the Captain re¬ 
assuringly, “ so pray do not distress yourself, my dear 
soul.” 

“ And you with but one arm, John ! ” she sighed, lay¬ 
ing one hand upon his empty sleeve. 

“ So much the less to shoot at! ” he retorted, and 
taking her hand in his, he bowed his grey head above 
it gallantly; “ Come, let us go in.” 

“ He would kill you, John!” she repeated. “So I am 
here to take you home with me.” 

“ Impossible, mam, absolutely! I say, not to be 
thought on for one moment — the — the matter has 
gone too far-” 

“ Then it shall go no farther, sir! ” 

“The meeting must take place. Duchess, there is 






Two Old Friends i6i 

positively, I say, mam, there is no possibility of avoid¬ 
ing it, for, d’ye see-” 

“This is why you will avoid it — at once, John 
Chumley 1 ” 

“Sir Nevil received my note two hours ago; I am 
expecting his answer or himself at any moment. . . . 
And hence, mam, my honour . . . d’ye see, mam-” 

“Your honour, indeed! Say your death, rather! 
O, John, John, don’t blather. ... I say this hateful 
thing shall not be. ... I am determined on’t! And, 
God forgive me, ’twas my doing . . . though indeed, 
John Chumley, you are such a bull-at-a-gate, such a 
wild, impetuous youth, such a desperate, reckless, hot¬ 
headed boy — Ah, what is that ? ” she cried suddenly, 
for the village street echoed to the wild gallop of hoofs, 
drawing rapidly nearer and louder until they clattered 
upon the cobbles of the inn-yard and stopped. 

“Who — who comes, John? ” she questioned sharply, 
clutching at the Captain’s empty sleeve. 

“Probably Sir Nevil’s answer, mam. Shall we go 
and see? ” 

“No, John — summon him here! Heavens, what a 
clatter of voices! Pray see what’s amiss, John!” 
Obediently the Captain strode off towards the yard, 
but ere he reached it a man came hurrying to meet 
him who spoke rapidly in low tones. “What is it, 
sir, what is it? cried the Duchess. “ Let the man come 
here, sir — Well, what’s the matter? ” 

“ Why, it seems, mam —— ” the Captain took off his 
hat and stood turning it in his hand, staring vaguely 
into the distance. “It seems, mam,” he repeated, “it 
seems that ... in short, mam, I — the meeting won’t 

take place ... by God, mam-” The Captain 

made a helpless little gesture with the hat he held and 
was silent. 

“Heavens!” exclaimed the Duchess, then, turning 
on the man, she stabbed at him with small, imperious 






i 62 The Loring Mystery 

finger: “You!” she commanded, “Speak! What’s 
the matter? ” 

“ Sir Nevil Loring is dead, mam! ” 

The slender finger quivered but, imperious still, 
waved the man to be gone. 

“ Dead! ” repeated the Captain, when they were 
alone. 

“I rejoice to hear it!” said the Duchess. “Here 
was the hand of God! ” 

“ But . . . O mam, he was . . . murdered, mam 
. . . last night! Murdered! ” 

“And time, too, John! ... O, do not look for 
sympathy from me! ” 

“ But, mam-” 

“Bah, John! Don’t look so virtuously shocked. 
. . . I knew Nevil from childhood and never any good 
of him ... a cruel, selfish boy—a heartless man, a 
small monster who invited his fate—a wretch who-” 

“ Madam ... at the least he is dead! ” 

“ Indeed, and so is his nephew, it seems, poor 
Humphrey’s son. Consequently one naturally wonders 
what will become of the property. ... Of course there 
is that poor simpleton, Belinda Chalmers , . . caused 
such a scandal twenty years ago, you ’ll remember! 
. . . But she don’t count — no, if he has troubled to 
make a will ’t will be either in favour of some groom 
or footman or the girl, his protegee — a handsome 
young animal, godless as a Caribbee Indian! You saw 
her the last time we ventured to Loring, six months 
ago, in the matter of poor Humphrey’s letter. You 
remember the creature, John?” 

“Who, mam?” 

“Why, the girl . . . Anticlea, as pagan as her 
name ... a bold-eyed minx utterly wild and lawless! 
Yet how should she be other with such upbringing. 
And he took her off the parish as a baby ... a name¬ 
less beggar’s brat-” 





I Two Old Friends 163 

I ‘‘ This at least was generous in him, Duchess.” 

‘‘Don’t be a sentimental fool, John! The cold- 
' hearted fiend could n’t be generous — and was n’t. 
i Never did a worthy act! Used to torment cats as a 
; boy, I remember! Used to torment this child simply 
* to enjoy her wild furies! Indeed, the best thing Nevil 
Loring ever did was to become a ghost — and he 
could n’t do even that decently it seems! . . . And 
to-day, thanks to him, this girl is a fierce, sullen thing 
— an audacious, sharp-tongued, passionate creature — 
altogether detestable! ” 

“ Unhappy girl! ” said the Captain. 

“ Sullen baggage! ” snorted the Duchess. 

“ Poor lonely soul! ” said the Captain. 

“ A red-haired, ranting virago, sir! ” quoth the 
Duchess. “ They say she actually and positively 
assaulted the village beadle once ... in the church¬ 
yard ! On a Sunday! ” 

“ Hum! ” murmured the Captain. 

“ The beadle probably deserved it, sir! However, 
John, I intend to offer the child my protection — im¬ 
mediately ! ” 

“ Good God, mam! ” ej aculated the Captain. 

“ I am a lonely old woman, Jack Chumley. Cleone 
has her Barnabas and her baby! Besides, viragos ap¬ 
peal to me — especially young ones! ” 

“ But . . . God bless my soul,” exclaimed the Cap¬ 
tain, “ I say b’ Gad, mam-” 

“ So I shall run down to Loring Chase this afternoon 
and you shall escort me, John.” 

“ Heaven forbid, mam! I say not even for-” 

“ So the matter is settled. Your arm, John, pray! ” 
So the Captain bowed, gave his arm, and side by side 
they returned to the inn. 

And after some while David got him down from the 
rick and, avoiding the inn-yard, set off upon his mission. 




CHAPTER XXV 

Some Description of Red Hair and Tears 

Four o’clock had chimed from distant church-tower 
as David, turning from the hot and dusty high-road, 
mounted a stile and sat there to rest, for he was pain¬ 
fully tired; the bodily hardship and mental stress he 
had endured of late had sapped strength and vitality. 
Thus he sat viewing the rolling, wooded prospect before 
him with lack-lustre eyes and pondering what explana¬ 
tion he should offer Mr. Shrig for his so sudden absence. 
In the midst of which, his thoughts must go wandering 
off to Anticlea — this strange, ungentle creature so 
infinitely below all his youthful ideals of beauty and 
womanly perfection . . . “ a red-haired, ranting 
virago! ” . . . And he detested red hair! . . . “ One 
who would, if needful, kill a man as soon as look at 
him! ” And in his pocket that ghastly dagger of hers. 
He remembered how she had shown it to him in the 
wood, and he (God forgive him!) had commented upon 
its deadliness “if properly used” . . . Well, it had been 
properly used! 

Sighing, he got down from the stile and went his 
way slow-footed, following a narrow field-path which 
led across a meadow to lose itself finally in a little 
copse; but preferring the open, he left this path and 
skirted the wood, his feet soft-falling upon tender, lush 
grass. ... “A fierce, sullen, passionate creature!” 
And — with red hair! . . . 

David halted suddenly and caught his breath. 

She lay outstretched before him, head pillowed upon 
her arm, gazing up into the blue serenity of heaven; 


Red Hair and Tears 165 

and there flashed upon him the sudden knowledge of 
her beauty; the dazzling whiteness of her throat, the 
voluptuous contours of rounded bosom and broad hip, 
the long, graceful line of shapely limbs — and there¬ 
withal a careless abandon in her pose, a lithe vigour 
and strength that offended him: ‘‘A handsome young 
animal ” in very truth! 

Presently, turning her head, she saw him and, sit¬ 
ting up with an effortless ease, frowned at him: 

“What do you want?” she demanded angrily, not 
recognising him at first, and then as David bowed: 
“ Oh, it’s — only you! ” 

“Only me, lady.” 

“But you are different . . . changed, surely?” 

“ Merely barbered, mam.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“ To Loring.” 

“Why? What for? Why there?” she questioned 
sharply. 

“ For sufficient reason, lady.” 

“ Then you are a fool! ” 

“ I begin to think I am, lady.” 

“Yes, a reckless fool!” she repeated. “You might 
have reached London by now — or the coast.” 

“ That’s so, I guess, mam! ” he nodded. “ But 
then I’ve no desire for London — or the coast.” 

“You left your hat behind you — last night.” 

“Ay!” said David starting. “To be sure ... I 
had forgotten the hat! ” 

“ What brought you there last night ... in the 
very house ... at such an hour?” she questioned, 
sinking her voice to a whisper. 

“A foolish impulse!” he answered, “I came hop¬ 
ing to prevent . . . what happened-” 

“To prevent?” she repeated, fiercely scornful. 

“ Yes, mam! ” he answered gravely, “ I had heard his 
life threatened and-” 




i66 The Loring Mystery | 

“Ah!” she cried, recoiling, “You mean ... by i 
me ... in the wood yesterday?” 5 

“Not you, lady.” 

“ Then who . . . who else ? ” 

“ I cannot tell you, lady.” 

“You must! You shall!” she cried passionately. 
“Was it . . . was it Eustace Maulverer? ” 

“ No, lady.” 

“O, but you are screening someone . . . sheltering 
somebody.” 

“ That is why I took the dagger! ” said David 
gently. In one movement, as it seemed, she was on her 
feet. 

“O, hateful!” she cried, “You . . . you dare sug¬ 
gest-” 

“ Nothing, lady! ” he sighed. “ Only I would to God 
you had been safe asleep in your bed-” 

“ Instead of which I caught — you! ” she retorted, 
staring at him eye to eye. 

“You did, lady!” 

“You were stooping above him when I drew the 
curtain.” 

“True, mam!” 

“ Then,” said she, catching up the cloak and bundle 
that lay at her feet, “ you were wiser to go your way 
and let me go mine.” 

“ Surely, mam! And my way is to Loring; pray 
where is yours ? ” 

“ As far from the hateful place as possible! ” 

“Ah,” said David. “You mean that you are quit¬ 
ting Loring — for good?” 

“For ever!” she cried passionately. “I am free 
at last, thank God, and pray never to see the hateful 
place again.” 

“But . . . but,” stammered David, “to leave just 
now, at such a time, and in such a manner, is utter 
madness! ” 




167 


Red Hair and Tears 

! “ Mad or no, I’m going! ” 

‘‘But think, lady, think!” he pleaded. “You would 
i be followed, sought for, tracked! Your name would be¬ 
come a byword, a mark for every vile suspicion-” 

“So much the better for — the guilty one!” she 
; retorted, staring at him beneath sullen brows. 

“ They would hunt you . . . hound you down-” 

“What of it? ” she cried wildly. “I tell you if they 
caught and imprisoned me I should still be free, for — 
he is dead- 

“ Hush, lady, hush! And pray reflect. ... If you 
run off thus-” 

“ Stand aside! ” said she imperiously. 

“No!” answered David, shaking his head. “Under 
the circumstances, you will, I think, return to your 
duty.” 

“What duty?” 

“ The duty you owe to your own good name.” 

“ Will you let me pass ? ” 

“No, mam-” 

David reeled backwards before her pantherine leap; 
then, grasping him in fierce hands, she whirled him 
aside with a strength so altogether unexpected that he 
staggered and nearly fell. 

“Would you dare?” she cried, “Would you dare? 
Do you think you can stay me — you?” 

“Why, surely, mam!” he answered, grim-lipped. 

But as he spoke she was on him again and, though 
now he was prepared, twice she swung him from his 
feet so that he was forced to struggle with her in self- 
defence, a sordid grappling that revolted him; at last, 
by means of an old wrestling trick, he broke her hold 
. . . and she was down ... a wild, panting, dishev¬ 
elled creature, scowling up at him through the disorder 
of her tangled hair. 

David stood breathless, staring down at her with 
horrified eyes: 









i68 The Loring Mystery | 

“ God in heaven 1 ” he gasped, “ What have you i 
made me do ? ” , 

“ Beast! ” she cried. Damned coward! Loathsome 1 
brute! ” 

“Lady!” panted David, bowing profoundly, “your 
language is unworthy and . . . offends me as . . 
much as your red hair . . . which is all . . . about your 
ears . . . extremely unbecoming! ” 

At this she flamed anew, lashing him with 
unrestrained as shamed him for her sake, 
less she made haste to order her rumpled garments and 
wind up the disordered tangles of her hair. 

“ And now,” said David at last, “ if you are quite 
ready, I will escort you back home.” 

“ Then you shall drag me! ” said she sullenly. 

“Indeed no!” he answered. “We have had enough 
of vulgar scuffling! Pray will you not rise, mam? ” 

“No!” 

“ Very well,” he sighed, seating himself opposite 
her, “ I will sit here and talk to you. And first 
pray-” 

“Fool!” said she in bitter contempt. “Your free¬ 
dom — your life is in my power ! ” 

“ Is it so, lady ? ” 

“Do you doubt it, fool? If you force me to go 
back to Loring . . . well, suppose I tell where you 
were last night?” 

“ I should probably be arrested, mam.” 

“ Then begone while you may ! ” 

“ Impossible, mam ! ” 

“ Then don’t dare to hinder me! ” and she made to 
rise, but David’s outstretched hand stayed her. 

“ O pray,” he sighed, “ attempt no more violence, 
it shall not serve you and is very undignified for you 
and me. Try to realise, mam, that brutal strength 
in a woman and a coarse tongue are infinitely 
abhorrent-” 


tongue so < 
None thel 




Red Hair and Tears 169 

“ Ah! ” cried she, between white teeth, “ I shall be 
glad — yes, I shall rejoice to send you to prison!” 

“And Nature,” continued David, “Nature formed 
you woman-” 

“Damn Nature!” she cried wildly. “I would to 
God I were a man! I feel like a man ... I think like 
a man ... I am stronger than most men. ... I 
would to God-” 

“Stop!” cried David, shocked and angry. “You 
do but shame your womanhood and . . .” he paused, 
“ and now will you suffer me to see you safely back to 
Loring Chase.?” 

“ No ! ” cried she, with a passionate spurning gesture 
of her foot, “ I hate the place! ” 

“You were not happy there.?” he questioned more 
gently. 

“ Happy.? ” she repeated in bitter mockery. “ It was 
worse than death! ” 

“Then why — why did you not run away before?” 

“ I stayed for my poor B’lindy’s sake. . . . But to¬ 
day he is dead and I am free. ... I live at last! ” 

“Yes, but Mrs. Belinda will be anxious and very 
lonely without you, won’t she? ” 

Anticlea’s head drooped and she was silent awhile: 

“ O, I am a vile, selfish beast! ” said she at last. 

“ Indeed I think you will be if-” 

“Do you indeed, sir! Then pray keep your hate¬ 
ful thoughts to yourself.” 

“ Yes, mam! ” he answered. 

Now here, to his wonder, she began to laugh, and 
then, to his dismay, she began to weep passionately. 

“ Don’t! ” he pleaded, “ O pray don’t! O child, for 
Heaven’s sake don’t cry! ” 

But, at this, she sank face down upon the grass and 
lay abandoned to her grief, her whole body shaken by 
wild sobs. 

“ Great heavens! ” exclaimed David, glancing help^ 





170 The Loring Mystery 

lessly about; then, kneeling beside her, he laid his hand 
upon her shoulder, her shining hair, and begged her to 
be comforted. 

“ I am so lonely! ” she sobbed. “ So . . . very lonely 
and . . . tired!” 

“ Why, so am I, child 1 ” he answered gently, “ very 
weary and utterly solitary ... so pray will you not 
be my friend, Anticlea, and suffer me to be yours-” 

“ And . . . my hair is . . . red! ” she sobbed. 

“ But very long and silky! ” he answered. 

‘‘ And . . . red hair is . . . detestable I ” 

“Not . . . not always !” he answered; ”I mean 
. . . only sometimes.” 

Here she turned her head to glance up at him tear¬ 
fully over her shoulder: 

“What do you mean.?” she enquired, with strange 
humility. 

“ I mean that . . . some people might think red 
hair the . . . the loveliest in the world.” 

“What people.?” 

“People of ... of a matured judgment.” 

In a little she sat up, frowning. 

“ I despise women that weep! ” said she, drying her 
tears contemptuously. 

“Surely it is very—feminine.?” he suggested. 

“ That’s why I despise myself . . . and it is all 
your fault! But then I . . . abominate red hair — 
especially mine, and this is not your fault.” 

“ Then,” said David gravely, “ as a mark of your 
forgiveness, and for the sake of poor Mrs. Belinda, let 
me take you back home.” 

“Very well!” sighed Anticlea, “Yes, I will go 
back . . . for my B’lindy’s sake.” 

“And the sake of . . . our friendship.?” he ques¬ 
tioned, a little diffidently, and reached out his hand. 
For a moment she hesitated, then, warm and soft and 
strong, her fingers clasped his; but in this same mo- 



Red Hair and Tears 171 

ment a shadow fell between them and, turning, David 
came face to face with Mr. Maulverer, whose eyes 
flashed with a look of instantaneous recognition. Se¬ 
date and impassive as ever, Mr. Maulverer did not 
glare or frown or clench his fists, yet in the droop of 
his eyelids, the quivering dilation of delicate nostril 
and every line of his supple, stately figure, David read 
a menace. 


CHAPTER XXVI 

Telleth How and Where David Hid the Dagger 

“I FEAR I intrude!” said Mr. Maulverer, removing 
his hat and bowing to Anticlea. 

“ You do! ” she answered ungraciously, while he 
watched her beneath drooping lids. 

“ It is my regret! ” said he softly and with an almost 
imperceptible shrug. 

“ Pray, what do you want ? ” she demanded. 

“ You! ” he answered in dull, repressed tone. You 
have been missed 1 The Law Officer has enquired 
for you repeatedly and Mrs. Chalmers is quite dis¬ 
traught owing to your absence . . . your somewhat 
— unexpected departure.” 

‘‘I came out for — for a walk!” said she suddenly. 

With your cloak . . . and a bundle! ” he smiled, 
with another slight shrug. “ Permit me to carry 
them-” 

“No!” said Anticlea haughtily. “You will re¬ 
turn, if you please, and tell B’lindy I am taking the air. 
And if the officer — that officious brute — wants me, 
let him come and find me.” 

“And your bundle.?^” suggesed Mr. Maulverer. 

“ I can carry it myself.” 

“Also you have an escort, I see.” 

“ You may go! ” she cried angrily. “ Have the 
goodness to leave me — at once, Maulverer! ” 

“ Assuredly! ” he answered, “ though, ere I do so, 
my sense of duty compels me to . . . warn you-” 

“What do you mean.^” she questioned a little 




Hiding the Dagger 173 

breathlessly, and glancing about her in sudden appre¬ 
hension. 

“ No, no !” said he gently. “Do not distress yourself, 
there is no pursuit — yet! I would simply warn you, 
as in duty bound, that I have seen this ” — Mr. Maul- 
verer paused momentarily to glance towards David — 
“ this gentleman before I ” 

Anticlea turned her back upon the speaker and began 
to pluck at the grass with petulant fingers. 

“What business is this ... of mine.?^” she enquired 
in the same breathless manner. 

“This I must leave you to judge for yourself. Miss 
Anticlea 1 But I saw this gentleman in Sir Nevil’s 
room the day before yesterday afternoon-” 

Anticlea laughed suddenly: 

“ The day before yesterday 1 ” she repeated, and 
tossed a handful of grass into the air. “O, be off to 
your pens and ink, Maulverer!” she cried. “What 
do I care what you did or whom you saw . . . the 
day before yesterday?” 

Mr. Maulverer seemed as impassive as ever, only his 
clean-cut lips curved in a faint smile: beholding which 
smile David glanced at the angle of his jaw, immedi¬ 
ately above his high stock, and was not sorry to be¬ 
hold there a slight swelling and discoloration. 

“ The day before yesterday!” repeated Mr. Maulverer 
in his hushed, repressed manner, “ on which occasion 
Sir Nevil made a very remarkable statement concerning 
himself and this gentleman, a statement which, in view 
of the late dreadful crime, I feel it incumbent upon me 
to relate to you, leaving it to your judgment whether 
I ought to publish the fact to . . . others.” 

Anticlea was silent, but David saw her fingers were 
plucking and tearing at the grass again. 

“Well?” said she at last, without glancing up. 

“Briefly, then,” continued Mr. Maulverer, “I 
chanced, on the afternoon in question, to enter Sir 



174 The Loring Mystery 

Nevil’s room unexpectedly and surprised this gentleman 
standing before Sir Nevil in a very threatening posture 
with a pistol in his hand. Seeing me, Sir Nevil beck¬ 
oned me near and ^ Maulverer,’ said he, ‘ if any harm 
should befall me ... at any time, or anywhere . . . 
pray take particular notice of this person that you 
may know exactly what kind of man my murderer is! ’ ” 

Anticlea shivered slightly, and David saw her trem¬ 
bling fingers slowly clench themselves. And then Mr. 
Maulverer spoke again, addressing David for the first 
time: 

“ I am exact, I think, sir ? ” he enquired. “ Those 
were Sir NeviFs actual words, or very nearly so? ” 

“ Sir,” answered David, “ You have a very faithful 
memory.” 

“Now shall I carry your bundle, Anticlea.?” en¬ 
quired Mr. Maulverer, addressing her shapely back. 

“ No! ” she answered, without looking round. 
“Leave me — at once! Tell B’lindy I am here . . . 
^o!” 

“And the . . . Bow Street Officer — ‘That offi¬ 
cious brute ’ ? On the whole I think perhaps you should 
permit me to carry your bundle.” 

“Very well!” said Anticlea, and rose to her feet. 
Then, stepping forward, Mr. Maulverer stooped for 
the bundle in question, but David was before him; set¬ 
ting it lightly beyond his reach, he bowed: 

“ Sir,” said he, “ you may inform all and sundry, 
or whomsoever it may concern, that I may be found 
at ‘ The Rearing Horse ’ for some days to come.” 

Mr. Maulverer frowned slightly, glanced from 
David’s alert figure to the silent Anticlea and seemed 
to ponder, then he bowed and, without another word, 
turned and left them. 

“ Quick! ” she whispered, as soon as he was out of 
earshot. “Quick . . . into the wood ! You can hide 
safely there till dark.” 


Hiding the Dagger 175 

I ‘‘ That would be the act of a guilty rogue! ” said 
! David. 

“But . . . but,” she stammered, looking at him 
jwith great troubled eyes, “you . . . O, are you mad 
I — are you mad.^ You heard what he said.?^ O, hurry 
. . . there, they are coming! Hurry, I beg — I im¬ 
plore you, hide yourself . . . for my sake if not for 
your own! For the sake of . . . our friendship-” 

Stirred by this passionate appeal, David sulfered his 
better judgment to be overruled and stepped into the 
wood; but being there, screened by the dense leafage, 
he paused irresolute and, glancing back, saw the gleam 
of Mrs. Belinda’s white gown, heard her rapturous 
cry of welcome as she ran to greet Anticlea, and then 
Mr. Maulverer’s leisured tones: 

“Your cavalier seems to have deserted you, Miss 
Anticlea, which was perhaps wise in him . . . under 
the circumstances! ” 

David stood hesitating in angry mortification, 
greatly minded to go back; but remembering for what 
purpose he had returned to Loring, he checked the 
impulse and hasted upon his errand. 

Very soon he saw before him the desolate ruin of 
Loring Weir Mill, its mouldering decay the more evi¬ 
dent in the setting sun’s level rays, a place which, to 
him, breathed of things corrupt, chilling him anew with 
that indefinable sense of brooding evil. 

A bird called plaintively afar, the stream whispered 
stealthily among the alders, but except for this no 
sound broke the mournful silence. 

Eager to be done with the place and away, he 
hurried across the stretch of rank grass, starting 
suddenly from that rotting log which, at a casual 
glance, seemed so horribly like a dead and writhen 
human form. 

Hastening on again, he entered the yawning door¬ 
way of the mill and, being within its chill shadow, drew 




176 The Loring Mystery 

forth that hateful dagger, its murderous tell-tale steel 
mercifully hidden in the paper twisted (and horribly 
glued now) fast about it. With this dreadful thing 
in his hand he crept to a certain gloomy corner and 
stooping, raised the trap, disclosing that dark chasm 
whence rose a fetid air with the ghastly drip-drip of 
falling water far below. 

Down . . . down into those awful depths David cast 
the tell-tale dagger and waited to hear the splash of 
its fall; waited thus with breath in check until it burst 
from him in a groan, for no sound reached him but the 
faint, steady drip-drip of water. 

Chilled with a dreadful amazement, sweating with 
an ever-growing horror, David crouched to peer down 
into that pit of noisome blackness, listening . . . 
listening for the splash that never came. . . . And 
then, all at once, up from that evil gloom, plain to 
hear above the dripping water, rose a sound horridly 
familiar . . . the soft whistling snuffle of a deep- 
drawn breath: and, recognising this sound, David 
shrank away, letting fall the trap with a crash that 
echoed dismally in his ears as he hurried from that 
evil place. 


CHAPTER XXVII 

Concerning a Tendril of Red-gold Hair 

‘‘ The Rearing Horse ” Inn, as already set forth, 
was a quiet, rambling hostel, of no great size, set well 
back from the road upon a gentle eminence; a sleepy, 
restful place that seemed to drowse in the shade of 
trees. Upon the one side lay the stable yard smelling 
pleasantly of hay and horses, yet whose peace was 
seldom troubled by the ring of hoofs; upon the other 
side was a garden, where fruit trees flourished and 
flowers rioted, shut olf from the road by a quickset. 
In a corner of this garden, pleasantly remote and half- 
buried in climbing roses, stood a small arbour whence 
one might command a view of the garden, the inn, the 
winding road and the wooded country beyond, a pleas¬ 
ing landscape stretching away, mile on mile, to the 
bold swell of Firle Beacon and the purple Downs afar. 

Within this secluded bower, a radiant sunset making 
a glory all about him, sat Mr. Shrig lost in such pro¬ 
found excogitation that the clay pipe between his 
fingers was cold long since. 

From famous wide-brimmed hat to square-toed top- 
boots Mr. Shrig was his outer self again. Between the 
knees of his cords leaned the knotted stick, his square, 
rosy face was smooth and innocent of whisker; but 
the erstwhile placid brow of Mr. Shrig was furrowed 
with care; his eyes, heedless of the beauties of earth 
and sky, were focussed pertinaciously on the toe of 
his boot; his clean-shaven lips had pursed themselves 
in their soundless whistle. At last he sighed, shook 
his head and called, though not very loudly: 


178 The Loring Mystery 

“O, Dan’l!” 

Out from the tap and up flower-bordered path 
trotted a small, meek-looking man with colourless eyes 
and hay-like whiskers who, reaching Mr. Shrig, blinked 
mildly. 

“Wot now, Jarsper.?^” he enquired. . 

“If,” said Mr. Shrig, eyeing the toe of his boot 
again, “if Mr. Gillespie got my message in time for 
’im to ketch the fast mail, ’e should reach Lewes to¬ 
night— eh, Dan’l.?” 

“True enough, Jarsper.” 

“V’y, then, ’ire an ’oss and gig, Dan’l — you ^ can 
get one from Jim Crook the Carrier — and fetch Mr. 
Gillespie ’ere to me.” 

“Right y’are, Jarsper! Anything more.?” 

“Ah! Tell landlord Tom to draw me a pint of 
old! For when the ’eart of man is bowed down, Dan’l, 
there’s nothing . . . except the Corporal’s Vun and 
Only ... as can elewate it like a pint of old ale. An’ 
my ’eart, Dan’l, is bowed uncommon low.” 

“Why, this ain’t like you, Jarsper.” 

“No more it ain’t, Dan’l, but this ’ere murder’s 
shook me, upset all my calculations, d’ye see. ... 
Here vas me, only day before yesterday arternoon — 
afore Sir Nevil took and got ’isself murdered, d’ye see 
— vith my case all complete, my proofs (dammem!) all 
in order — sarcumstantial ewidence enough to ’ang a 
dozen men . . . the rope rove, Dan’l, the gallers waitin’ 

. . . An’ now — to ’ave ’im snatched from under my 
werry famble, as ye might say, by the daddle o’ Death! 
’Eart-breakin’ is the only vord for it, Dan’l, ’eart- 
breakin’ ! ” 

“ True for you, Jarsper, ’e ought to ’ave swung; ay, 
’e ought to ha’ been ‘ topped ’ ! ” nodded the little man 
mildly. “It’s a pity—a great pity, and ’ard on 
you, but Fate was agin’ ye ... A pint of ^old’ eh, 
Jarsper.?” Here, chancing to lift his sombre gaze. 


' Red-gold Hair 179 

Mr. Shrig espied one approaching whose long, swift 
strides bespoke alike vigorous youth and a mind per¬ 
turbed. 

“ Two pints ! ” said Mr. Shrig. “ And hist, Dan’l, I 
vants a vord wi’ that theer young cove, so stay round 
a bit, see as nobody gets a chance to listen nor yet to 
peep or pry.” 

“Right y’are, Jarsper!” And the meek-seeming 
Dan’l trotted olf obediently into the tap, whence he 
very presently reappeared, a pint pot in either hand: 
thereafter, at a nod from Mr. Shrig, he vanished. 
Thus, as David approached he beheld a knotted stick 
flourished aloft to beckon him on, and, drawing near 
the flowery arbour, beheld Mr. Shrig therein flanked by 
foaming tankards. 

“ Well,” said he, grasping Mr. Shrig’s extended 
hand, “ here I am back again, Jasper.” 

“ And ’ere’s me an’ a pint of old to welcome ye, pal. 
Sit down and drink ’earty. . . . ’ere’s best respex! ” 

David drank thirstily, nodded gratefully and, resting 
the half-emptied flagon on his knee, leaned back and 
turned to his companion: 

“I guess you’ll be wondering where I’ve been.?” 
he began a little diffidently. 

“No,” answered Mr. Shrig, shaking placid head, 
“I only vonders v’y you went.” 

David sat up and stared: 

“Ha . . . then you . . . know-.? ” 

“ Ay, I know,” said Mr. Shrig, sinking his voice, 
“ that you vas at Loring Chase last night! ” 

“How — how do you know this.?” questioned 
David, slopping his ale in amazement. “Who told 
you.? ” 

“Your boots, pal. . . . An’ mind your ale!” 

“ My boots.? ” repeated David, staring down at them. 

“ Ah 1 ” nodded Mr. Shrig, “ your right boot ’as only 
’alf a sole an’ your left has an ’ole in it.” 



i8o The Loring Mystery 

“ True! ” said David, viewing the sole of each boot 
in turn. “ But how- ? ” 

“ Obserwation, pal! Last night you dumb a wall 
and dropped into soft ground, leaving werry good 
impressions. . . . Quite simple, d’ye see. Now, ’aving 
got so fur, ’t is only to be expected as you went a bit 
further.?” Here Mr. Shrig’s keen gaze focussed it¬ 
self in the vicinity of David’s ankle. 

“I did!” 

“ As fur as . . . the ’ouse, pal ? ” Mr. Shrig’s gaze 
crept up to David’s knee. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Into the ’ouse, p’r’aps ? ” Mr. Shrig’s gaze stole 
to the top button of David’s waistcoat. 

“Yes, Jasper.” 

“ Then, maybe you saw . . . summat ? ” 

“I found Sir Nevil ... in his chair . . . dead.” 

“ What o’clock vould it be ? ” 

“ I’m not sure, but somewhere about midnight, I 
guess.” 

“Found him. Dead.?” 

“Yes, Jasper.” 

Mr. Shrig’s glance flashed to David’s face and for a 
long moment they stared into each other’s eyes. 

“You found ’im ... in ’is chair . . . stabbed to 
death — eh.? ” 

“Yes, Jasper.” 

“Good!” nodded Mr. Shrig. “You don’t ’ave to 
take your oath nor yet svear, your vord’s good enough 
for me, pal . . .” 

“ Thank you! ” said David, and reached out im;^ul- 
sively to grasp his companion’s hand. 

“ Though, look’ee, I ain’t a court o’ law, pal.” 

“ Indeed, I know how awkwardly I should be placed 
were this known-” began David. 

“ An’ no error! ” nodded Mr. Shrig. “ Vich I there¬ 
fore ax you, vot brought you there last night.? ” 




I 

Red-gold Hair i8i 

j “ The hope that I might be in time to save Sir 

liNeviPs life.” 

I ‘‘ So you knowed ’e was in danger, pal — in near and 
deadly danger, did ye ? ” 

‘‘Yes, Jasper.” 

“Who from.?” 

; “ This I cannot tell you.” 

I “ Meaning as you know but von’t tell.? ” 

“ Precisely! ” 

“ Pal, you don’t ’ave to — I found the party’s ’at, 
or, as you might say, cady — vich is an ’at as I think 
I’ve seen afore, an ’at belonging to . . . let’s say, 
a nameless wagrant. Lord love me!” he went on 
dolefully, “Lord love my eyes and limbs, but life’s 
outrageous ’ard for one o’ my perfession. ’Ere’s Sir 
Nevil Loring, Baronet, thanks to the perwerseness o’ 
Fate, been an’ got ’isself murdered and give me the 
slip only just in the werry nick o’ time . . . ’e ought 
to ha’ died — different, pal! . . . You understand 
me, I think.?” 

David bowed his head. 

“ Con-seqvently ’ere’s me diddled by Fate most 
crool — and vith another case on my ’ands, a mystery, 
pal David, as is like to cost a deal o’ time an’ trouble.” 

“Are clues so scarce, then, Jasper.?” 

“ Con-trairiwise, pal, they ’re a-layin’ around so 
thick I’m a-running foul o’ them—constant! Possible 
murderers is a-popping up on every ’and, con-tinual, 
and motives is everywhere.” 

“ O! ” exclaimed David, nearly upsetting his ale 
again, “ do ... do you mean you suspect — some¬ 
one .? ” 

“Suspect.?” quoth Mr. Shrig wearily, “Lord love 
ye, pal, sit nearer and I’ll read over the list of ’em.” 
So saying, he drew from his pocket a small yet bulky 
volume and thumbing over to a certain page, read as 
follows in voice scarce above a whisper: 


i 82 The Loring Mystery 

“ ‘ Parties suspected in murder of Sir N., vith reason 
for said suspicion: Number Vun, Mrs. Belindy, sus¬ 
pected as residing on place of crime . . . Possible! 
Number Two, Miss Anti-clea, suspected ditto and also 
as being of hot, passionate temper and oncommon 
strong as females go . . . Werry probable! N.B. 

To be took partic’lar notice of- 

“Ridiculous!” exclaimed David. “Why should you 

write her down in your damned book-” 

“ ^ As bein’ ’ot-tempered and oncommon strong as 
females go-’ ” 

“ That does not make her a murderess-” 

“But Natur’ and Circumstances might, pal. . . . 
And I’ve only wrote her down ‘ werry probable ’. . . . 
‘Number Three, Mr. Maulyverey ditto and being in 

love vith Number Two, Miss A. aforesaid- 

“ How do you know he’s in love with her? ” 

“By obserwation, pal! . . . Lemme go on: ‘love 
wi’ Number Two and likewise being a quiet, desp’ret 
cove and dangerous . . . Werry probable indeed. 
N.B. Also to be vatched. Number Pour, Benjamin 

Bowker, a’ ex-convict-’ ” 

“How did you learn of him? ” questioned David. 

“ Obserwation, pal! . . . ‘ Ex-convict, lately re¬ 
turned, an’ suspected o’ windictive designs agin’ de¬ 
ceased. Also ’is ’at found on scene o’ crime. A’ 
extry-special ’opeful subject. Number Five, Thomas 
Yaxley, ’ead gamekeeper to deceased an’ suspected of 
other fax, also known to have threatened deceased vith 

gun and now disappeared-’ ” 

“Ha!” exclaimed David. “Has he so, indeed?” 
“Ah, wanished ’ide and ’air, pal! . . . ‘Another 
extry-special ’opeful an’ promisin’ subject. N.B. 
Has werry large, strong, strangler’s ’ands. To be 
adwertised for. Number Six, Sir David Loring, Baro¬ 
net, as ’aving ’ad vords wi’ deceased; werry lately, and 
threatened same vith a pistol-’ ” 










Red-gold Hair 183 

“So you know of this also, do you!” said David 
grimly. 

“Ah! ” nodded Mr. Shrig placidly. ‘‘ So here y’are, 
sir, all dooly wrote down by me as in dooty bound! 
But lemme go on. . . . ‘vitji a pistol, an’ ’aving took 
himself off to parts unknown-’ ” 

“ And pray how do you describe me ? ” 

“ V’y, pal, I’ve got you wrote down ‘ Doubtful ’! ” 

“ Thank you for that at least! ” said David, smiling. 

“ And that’s the lot — at present! ” sighed Mr. 
Shrig, putting away his pocket-book, “ an’ enough too, 
by Goles! ” 

“ It seems a fairly large and varied selection! ” said 
David. 

“ So it is, sir. But it ’ll narrer down, bit by bit. 
But until I proves ’em innocent I regards ’em all as 
the guilty party.” 

“Even me, Jasper?” 

“Dooty,” sighed Mr. Shrig, shaking his head, “is 
dooty, pal. And this nat’rally brings us to the body 
o’ the deceased. ... It’s a werry speakin’ corpse, 
though to be sure the vepping’s gone, the knife, dagger 
or stilletter as vas the instrument o’ the fact, and ain’t 
been found yet. Still, this here body tells a lot — as 
you may ha’ noticed when you found it. How did you 
find it pal — how ? ” 

In answer to this expected question David briefly 
recounted his horrible experience, careful, of course, to 
omit all reference to Anticlea or the dagger, and in 
consequence uncomfortably conscious of his hearer’s 
fixed scrutiny. 

“So that vas the way of it — eh, pal?” 

“ Yes, Jasper ... it was most horrible! ” said 
David, shivering. 

Mr. Shrig gazed up at the evening sky, his lips 
pursed in their soundless whistle, while David watched 
him uneasily. 



184 The Loring Mystery 

“ Then you did n’t take occasion to inspect the 
cadaver close or careful, pal?” 

“No, indeed! I ... I hurried away as quickly 
as possible. Have you any theory of how • . . how 
it happened, Jasper?” 

“Ay, David. ’Tis my belief he was stabbed from 
behind afore ’e could rise, stabbed werry suddenly as 
he threw back his ’ead to laugh, and vas dead immedi¬ 
ate by a downward, slant-vise blow above the collar¬ 
bone -” 

“ Such a blow as only a man’s hand could strike I ” 
David suggested. 

“Werry true, pal — or a desp’rit ’ooman! Now, 
seeing as you ’urried away, you did n’t ’appen to notice 
anything . . . queerish about the corp’ ? ” 

“ Queerish? ” .repeated David. 

“ Ah! ” nodded Mr. Shrig, “ for, although de¬ 
ceased’s clothes vas novise disordered, his right shoe 
vas missing I . . . Vich is strange-like 1 ” 

“Missing?” repeated David, chilled with an un¬ 
accountable horror. 

“ Least-vays it was n’t on ’is foot.” 

“You mean it had been taken away? ” 

“’Ardly that, pal, but I found it a-top of a werry 
tall press, t’other side the room.” 

“ Strange I ” muttered David. “ Strange . . . and 
surely rather terrible.” 

“ This is a strange case, pal David. But as to ter¬ 
rible, I’ve knowed terriblerl . . . And then there’s 
his right ’and . . . the thumb and first fingers o’ same 
smeared vith ink as if — ’im in the act o’ writing —> 
somebody ’ad snatched the pen. Likevise I found a 
pen laying close agin the vinder . . . the quill all 
twisted and broke and the feather tore! Then, again, 
in a recess close to the body is a writing-table littered 
wi’ papers, pens and ink ... as you may ha’ noticed.” 

“No, I saw nothing of it.” 



Red-gold Hair 185 

I “ Howsomever, there it is, pal, and vot’s more, the 
I silver inkpot had been knocked over so that the ink 
had made a puddle on the floor. . . . And, pal — some¬ 
body ’ad trod into that theer puddle! An’ David . . . 
I knows who! ” 

Here David moved so violently that his tankard 
: fell, spilling its contents on the grass; observing which 
catastrophe Mr. Shrig hastened to gulp his own ale 
into safety. 

“You . . . you know who it was?” stammered 
David. 

“ Pal,” answered Mr. Shrig, wiping his mouth on an 
end of his neckerchief, “I do! ” 

“Well?” enquired David breathlessly, “Well?” 

“ Well, this mornin’, while I vas axing questions o’ 
the family and servants, a’ agent o’ mine vas a-seekin’ 
above stairs, an’ in a certain chamber, pal, hid in a 
dark cupboard ’e found a pair o’ shoes and the sole o’ 
vun o’ them stained vith ink werry plain an’ beautiful 
for to see! Vich shoes I ’old at this moment as ewi- 
dence in the case.” 

“ A ... a man’s shoes, of course! ” said David, 
stooping to grope for his fallen tankard. 

“ Pre-cisely, pal! They belongs to Mr. Maulyvery.” 

David stared awhile at the tankard in his hand, 
wholly unaware of the eyes that watched him so keenly. 

“Can you arrest him on such evidence?” 

“ I might, pal, only for just vun thing — an’ a werry 
small thing, too I ” 

“ What, Jasper? ” 

“ A thing as I found on the corp’ itself, a thing vich, 
seein’ you are you, I ’ll give ye a peep at if ye say the 
vord.” 

“ Thanks, Jasper, if you will.” 

Diving into one of his voluminous pockets, Mr. 
Shrig at length extricated a bulging wallet amongst 
whose contents he quested with a blunt finger while 



186 The Loring Mystery | 

David stared blindly at the empty tankard in his fist, 
and waited, cold with apprehension and vague fore-) 
boding. 

“ Here ve are! ” exclaimed Mr. Shrig at last. “ Sit j 
closer, pal David, nearer . . . nearer still — so!”j 
From the wallet he drew a screw of paper w.iich he un¬ 
did with the utmost care, ‘‘Look’ee here, pal — look!” 

Glancing up obediently, David saw between Mr. 
Shrig’s coarse thumb and finger a something long and 
silky that stirred to the air, glistening where the light 
caught it ... a long, curling hair of red-gold. ' 

“I found it,” said Mr. Shrig, in placid satisfaction, 
“ I found it, pal, tangled about the three silver buttons 
of Sir Nevil’s right sleeve! ... A voman’s ’air, pal, 
and of a colour not to be mistook ^—eh.? And . . . 
caught in the buttons of Sir Nevil’s sleeve ... ! ” 

“ If ever,” said David suddenly, in a strange, hushed 
tone, “ if ever a man deserved death ... he did . . .” 

“ True enough, pal, and mighty fort’nate to be so 
took off. But then ’e died by murder, d’ye see, and, 
dooty being dooty, I mean to run down the party or 
parties as done the deed, for them as murders ’angs — 

be they ’igh or low degree, man or-” 

David’s hand flashed out suddenly and the glowing 
tendril was gone from Mr. Shrig’s fingers, to be borne 
away upon the fragrant evening air . . . and in that 
same moment David was upon his feet. 

“ Damn you! ” he cried. “ Damn you for the cold¬ 
blooded, soulless animal you are! ” 

“Strike me perishing blind an’ dumb!” ejaculated 
Mr. Shrig, and made to rise also, but, meeting David’s 
look, sank back again: “ Lord! ” said he in hoarse, 
whispering tones, “so you . . . love ’er, do ye, pal? 
Yes, by Goles, ye do! . . . Then the Lord help ye, 

David . . . the Lord and all the angels-” 

But staying for no more, David turned on his heel 
and entered the inn. 





^ CHAPTER XXVIII 
V In Which Her Grace Makes a Discovery 

* The inn, usually so quiet, seemed all astir, for 
scarcely had David crossed the threshold than his ears 
were assailed by a medley of sounds from the tap- 
room— the shuffling of hobnailed boots, the clink of 
glass and pewter, with a rumble and buzz of excited 
conversation; wherefore, yearning for the peaceful se¬ 
clusion of his own small chamber, David turned away 
and was in the act of mounting the stair when he 
paused, suddenly arrested by a voice throatily deep 
and loudly authoritative: 

‘‘Ye may suspicion ’ere an’ ye may suspicion theer, 
friends, ye may say wot ye will an’ talk ’ow ye may, 
but I thinks wot I thinks! ” 

The tap-room door stood ajar, and by leaning over 
the banisters David could see the speaker for a large, 
plethoric man, sleek and round as to paunch and jowl, 
pompous as to bearing, who sat a little aloof from the 
company with a quart pot in his plump hand. 

“ I knaws,” he repeated, with solemn wag of big 
head, “wot I thinks, am thinkin’ an’ shall think, now 
and ’ereafter, amen!” 

“Then let’s ’ear!” said a small man, sharp of nose 
and voice. “Us do all know as you’ve a marvellous 
’ead, so wot are ye a-thinkin’ of, Mr. Sprowls.^^ Summat 
about this ’ere ’orrible murder^—eh? ” 

“ Ah! ” nodded Mr. Sprowls, “ though I should call 
it a ass-ah-sination, myself!” 

“ It’s the same thing, sir, only spoke different! ” said 
the Sharp-nosed Man. 


188 The Loring Mystery 

“Very likely,” admitted Mr. Sprowls, “but, y’see, 

I generally-always speaks different, such bein’ my 
natur’ 

“And generally-always nobody never nowise under¬ 
stands ye, nohow! ” retorted the Sharp-nosed Man. 

“Very likely!” repeated Mr. Sprowls. “Because j 
eddication is a hart as languishes woeful ’ereabouts 1 ” 

“But wot might you be a-thinkin’ along o’ this ’ere i 
crime, Mr. Sprowls, sir?’’-questioned a beefy, smocked- = 
frocked, youngish man with fiery whiskers. 

“Why, I thinks,” said Mr. Sprowls, and paused to 
sip his beer and glance round portentously upon his 
eager audience; “ I thinks, ’aVing meditated the matter i 
considerable, as the ’and wot basely ass-ah-sinated * 
Squire Loring so brutalious, were the ’and of — no 
man 1 ” 

“ But that ain’t sense nor yet reason,” cried the 
Sharp-nosed Man, “because us do arl know as Squire- ; 
Loring is quite murdered — ah, murdered dead, sure 
an’ sound, ’e be I ” 

“ The ’and,” continued Mr. Sprowls, with a slow 
and stately flourish of the quart pot, “ the ’and as 
done the sanguinarious deed, accordin’ to my thinkin’, 
was the ’and of a . . . fee-male 1 ” 

Here rose a chorus of amazed ejaculations and eager 
questioning: whereupon, after a meditative sip at his 
beer, Mr. Sprowls made answer: 

“ I thinks and likewise o-pines as the ’and wot com¬ 
mitted this ’ere barbarious hact is the i-dentical ’and 
wot committed a ’ssault and likewise battery on my 
own person with a w’ip-” 

“ Lord, Mr. Sprowls I ” gasped the Sharp-nosed 
Man. “Lord love us arl . . . ye never mean — Miss 
’Clea?” 

“Miss ’Clea!” snorted Mr. Sprowls, “Miss ’Clea in¬ 
deed! An’wot if I do? Miss’Clea . . . bah! ’t ain’t 
as if she was one o’ the Quality! She nat’rally ain’t no 





Her Grace’s Discovery 189 

I better than none o’ we — not so good! A beggar’s 
I brat ... a pauper took off of the parish! There 
ain’t nothing o’ the Quality about her — no! ” 
j “But . . . Lorramity, Mr. Sprowls, d’ye mean as 
I Miss ’Clea . . . done the deed?” 

“Ah!” nodded Mr, Sprowls, and in that moment 
[ the door swung violently open and in strode David. 

“ Damned liar! ” said he; and, being by nature in¬ 
stant of action as of word, snatche(bup the first missile 
that offered, which chanced to be an ancient ^beaver 
hat, and dashed it into the face of the astonished Mr. 
Sprowls, who promptly emptied his quart pot over 
himself in sheer amazement. 

“ Scoundrel! ” said David. “ Stand up and show us 
what a liar looks like! ” 

Mr. Sprowls, whose reverence for the Quality was 
profound, cringed at this well-bred,^ imperious voice 
and made to rise: but then the Quality, according to 
his conception, went always in broadclottf and fine 
linen; thus, noting David’s shabby exterior, Mr. 
Sprowls sat back defiantly in his chair and scowled: 

“ My beer! ” quoth he. “ A quart o’ good beer . . . 
all wasted! I be fair wet through . . . drenched I 
be! An’ wi’ my own beer! An’ arl along of a young 
rapscallions, trampin’ roofin o’ the roads \ O shame¬ 
ful! Willi-am . . . throw ’im out—immediate-” 

At this summons up rose the beefy, smock-frocked, 
youngish man, whose rubicund visage glowed bellige¬ 
rently between fiery whiskers, a purposeful young man 
who clenched red fists and advanced upon David with 
a joyous alacrity while the company hummed in happy 
expectation. 

“ Hay, my chap,” quoth the beefy young man, “ you 
’eered wot Mr. Sprowls said, Oi rackon? Well, out ye 
go, or-” 

Here the beefy young man raised a fist and thrust 
out head and jaw aggressively, in which instant David 




190 The Loring Mystery 

sprang with fist that shot, smacking true, to its mark, 
whereupon red face and fiery whiskers vanished, in 
whose stead appeared a momentary vision of hobnailed 
boots and stout, gaitered legs. 

“ Lie still! ” said David, frowning down at the pros¬ 
trate William. “ Lie still or I ’ll do it again! ” 

‘‘ Sir,” answered the beefy young man, tenderly 
cherishing his left whisker, Oi ain’t a-goin’ to move, 
not for nobody nor nothin’ — no’ow!” 

“As for the rest of you,” continued David, glaring 
round upon the silent company, “ let me hear you 
repeat or so much as whisper the lie uttered by yonder 
fat fool and I ’ll be the death o’ you! ” 

“Admirable, sir! Very happily expressed! Exceed¬ 
ingly right and proper! ” said a voice. 

Glancing hastily about, David espied a bonnet pro¬ 
truding through the open lattice, a bonnet whose size, 
like the voice, seemed familiar and from whose depths ' 
gleamed a pair of bright, strangely youthful eyes. 
Meeting David’s wondering glance, these eyes opened 
very wide an^ two very small mittened hands clasped 
each other: 

“ Heavens ! ” she exclaimed. “ Either I dream or you 
are a ghost, young man. But ghosts don’t usually 
knock people down . . . and yet I am very wide¬ 
awake! . . . the same height . . . the same line of 
nose and chin . . . the same turn o’ the head. . . . 
Amazing! Sir, I must talk with you. Also, I am 
thirsty. . . . Pray send away these curious, staring 
wretches — no, I will! ” The bonnet vanished from 
the window to reappear at the door, crowning an ex¬ 
tremely small yet determined-looking lady so elegantly 
bedight, from nodding feather to tiny sandalled foot, 
that Mr. Sprowls, immediately recognising “ The 
Quality”, was upon his feet, bowing servile back, hat 
in hand, all in a moment. 

“You are the beadle, I think?” she demanded. 



f 

Her Grace’s Discovery 191 

“Yes, your ladyship’s grace, mam, I am. Very 
’umbly at yc ^r Grace’s service.” 

“Then you may go. And pray take your com¬ 
panions with you.” 

“ Himmediate, your Grace! ” 

And Mr. Sprowls, his pomposity no whit abashed, 
having flourished forth the mute company, bowed his 
moist person out after them forthwith. 

“And now, sir,” said the lady, seating herself upon 
the big settle and removing her bonnet, “ now, sir, you 
may talk to me.” 

An ancient, autocratic lady this, very small and 
very upright, with cheeks suspiciously pink and curls 
suspiciously dark and luxuriant, but her eyes were 
wonderfully young and handsome. 

“ Lady,” said David, somewhat taken aback and 
with his Southern drawl consequently a little more 
pronounced than usual, “you honour me!”. 

“ Sir,” she answered, “ you interest me I ” 

“ You are infinite kind, mam! ” said David, bowing. 

“No indeed, sir. I am merely an inquisitive old 
woman. But I was young once, years and years ago, 
and you remind me strangely of those halcyon days. 
Pray what is your name.?” 

“ David, mam.” 

“And your surname.?” Something in her tense 
attitude, the keenness of her glance, rendered him 
vaguely uneasy. Hesitating for an answer, he turned 
to look out of the window and found there inspiration: 

“ Hedges, lady.” 

“So I see!” she nodded. “I asked for your sur¬ 
name.” 

“Hedges, lady.” 

“ Indeed.? ” said she, looking at him. 

“Indeed, mam!” he answered, looking at her. 
“ Pray what did you mean by your talk of a ghost.? ” 

“I meant, sir, the ghost of vanished days, long- 


192 The Loring Mystery 

forgotten dreams, the ghost of the — ‘might have 
been’ . . . and I find that it answers to the name of 
‘Hedges’!” 

“ I fear you are beyond my comprehension, mam 1 ” 

“ Quite! ” she nodded, “ But O, David Hedges,” 
sighed she, a little wistfully, “ when I look at you I 
might be ringletted seventeen instead of bewigged 
seventy. You remind me of . . . heigho! To be 
sure, upon closer inspection, you are not handsome 
enough! But all the same I will drink with you . . . 
your eyes, your nose and chin . . . yes, you may 
order me some ale.” 

“Ale, madam?” gasped David. 

“ In a tankard, sir! ” she nodded. “ And pray, Mr. 
Hedges, don’t gape!” 

Obediently he summoned Tom, the flustered land¬ 
lord, who, overawed by the rank of his unexpected 
customer, bobbed his bullet head, knuckled his eyebrow, 
and presently setting before them two foaming tank¬ 
ards, bobbed himself out again as fast as possible. 

“You are not English, I think, Mr. Hedges?” 

“Indeed yes, mam.” 

“But your speech?” 

“ I was bred in Virginia, lady.” 

“ To be sure you look like an Englishman, and box 
like one.” 

“ My father preferred fists to pistols, mam.” 

“ Wise man! Is he alive? ” 

“No, lady.” 

“ Your mother ? ” 

“ No, lady.” 

“Have you any brothers or sisters?” 

“ No, lady.” 

“And what brings you to England?” 

“ To . . . better myself.” 

“Have you succeeded?” 

“No indeed, mam! ” 


Her Grace’s Discovery 193 

I'l 

“And have you resided long—^here in the village?” 

“ No, lady.” 

“And yet you know Anticlea, of course?” 

I “I have spoken with her . . . three or four times, 
i madam.” 

“ Mm! ” said the Duchess, viewing him with her 
i quick, bright glance, “ This may mean anything! 
You are not in love with her, I trust? ” 

“Most certainly not, madam!” answered David, 
flushing. 

“Ha! Very emphatic! Or she with you, sir?” 

“Heaven forbid, mam.” 

; “ Amen! ” quoth the Duchess. “ And yet you knock 

I a man down in her cause? Very right! Extremely 
I gallant and proper! Mr. Hedges, your health! ” And 
i lifting the heavy tankard in both small, mittened hands, 
she pledged him; whereupon up rose David to how his 
acknowledgments. 

“Pray what were you in Virginia, sir? Your trade 
— profession?” 

“A ... a farmer, mam.” 

“Mm!” said the Duchess musingly. “There is a 
joy in asking awkward questions, and you are a very 
indifferent liar, sir.” 

Here David had recourse to his ale, but seeing her 
about to question him further, spoke in self-defence: 

“ I think it but right, madam, to inform you that 
yesterday afternoon, quite inadvertently, I over¬ 
heard your conversation with Captain . . . Chumley 
is his name, I think?” 

“ Then I trust you were sufficiently edified.” 

David bowed. 

“And pray why confess your eavesdropping?” 

“Because honour compels, mam.” 

“ And your name is Hedges ! ” 

“ At your service, lady! ” he answered, with another 
bow. 





194 The Loring Mystery 

“Did you learn your courtly manners behind your 
plough, sir ? ” 

“Indeed, mam, since you ask, I was not always 
ploughing.” 

“ O — drink your beer! ” quoth the Duchess, “ and 
then be good enough to explain how you contrived — 
inadvertently — to overhear a private conversation ” 

“ I was on the rick, lady.” 

“What in the world for.? ” 

“ To ... to rest, mam.” 

“Ha!” quoth the Duchess, and lifting tankard to 
lip, stared at him over the rim with one very bright eye 
and thus caught him watching her, whereupon down 
went tankard on table with a bang: 

“Are you staring at my wig, sir.?” she demanded. 

“No — no, indeed—stammered David in shocked 
accents, “indeed, mam, I never supposed you wore 
. . . that is . . . you misjudge me . . . pray believe, 

indeed-” David floundered to flushed, distressful 

silence. 

“ To be sure I wear a wig, sir — generally askew 

_j> 

“ O, madam, pray . . . lady, I beg-” he 

faltered. 

“Fiddlesticks, sir! Why should an old woman’s 
wig distress you.? Certainly I wear a wig and raddle 
my cheeks, as everyon^ knows, of course! But my 
teeth are as natural as my eyes — and both are sharp! 
And now,” said she, putting on her bonnet, “if you 
have quite finished your beer, I will beg your arm 
along the road.” 

Side by side they stepped out into a fragrant eve¬ 
ning, and with her hand hooked within David’s arm the 
small but indomitable Duchess pursued her enquiries, 
thus : 

Duchess: Talking of Virginia, sir, I had friends 
living there, very old and dear friends. Humphrey 





Her Grace’s Discovery 195 

Loring and his wife Angela. ... You may have heard 
of them? 

David : Why, to speak truth, mam- 

Duchess: Is sometimes difficult, I know, sir. But do 
your best! 

David: Virginia is a large State, mam, and I was 
generally at home- 

Duchess: Ploughing, of course. Heigho! (She 
yawns obtrusively.) What a charming rural scene: 
those thatched cottages bowered in roses, this winding 
road and such trim hedges, Mr. Hedges. 

David: Yes, mam. 

Duchess: Have you ever visited Loring Chase? 

David: Twice, lady. 

Duchess: Indeed? Then you must know — have 
known Sir Nevil? 

David : We were acquainted, mam- 

Duchess: An unfortunate, tragic family for gen¬ 
erations these Lorings, as perhaps you have heard, sir. 

David: No, lady. 

Duchess : There was Sir David, Humphrey and 
Nevil’s father ... he was of my day . . . they called 
him “ the Wild Loring ”... who killed his best 
friend in a duel, lost the woman he loved, married 
one he didn’t and got himself killed before his hoys 
were bom- And all — all through a foolish mis¬ 

take I Surely he was the saddest, most tragic figure of 
them all! O, young sir, beware of judging hastily or 
by appearances alone! . . . Poor David! Poor mis¬ 
taken David. . . . And but a few short weeks ago his 
grandson, another David, was murdered, it is said, and 
to-day . . . Nevil- 

David: An unfortunate, tragic house indeed! And, 
Sir David . . . was he . . . dear to you, lady? 

Duchess: He was, sir . . . in those halcyon days 
. . . so full of happy dreams, the days of seventeen. 
To-day I am seventy and wide-awake, alas- 








196 The Loring Mystery 

David: And wonderfully, marvellously young. 

Duchess: With rouged cheeks and a wig. 

David PI should never have guessed, mam. 

Duchess: Amiable young man! Sometimes you lie 
quite pleasingly . . . tell me more of yourself. What 
do you here so far from Virginia.? 

David : Seek work, lady. 

Duchess: And without success, I think.? 

David: At present, mam. 

Duchess: Are you staying in the village.? 

David : No, lady, at “ The Rearing Horse ” tavern 
where I had the honour to meet you. 

Duchess: Remain there for the next few days. I 
have some small interest and may hear of something to 
your benefit. 

David: Lady, you are very kind- 

Duchess: And we part here, sir—for the present. 

They had reached a pair of tall wrought-iron gates 
that opened upon a noble avenue beyond which, 
mounted upon its wide terrace, rose the house of 
Loring. 

A great, gloomy place! ” said the Duchess, shaking 
her head at it. “ And yet ’t was very different once 
upon a time, years and years ago. . . . There is a 
picture hangs in the Long Gallery, I will show it you 
one day, perhaps. Good night, Mr. Hedges, and next 
time you have occasion to use your fists may I be there 
to see.” 



CHAPTER XXIX 

In Which Ben Bowker Describes the Murder 

Evening changed to a night warm and very still, 
a night of all-pervading quietude lit by a radiant 
moon; and lured by the calm serenity, awed by the 
universal hush, David walked on, he cared not whither. 

Often he stayed to look round about upon the 
country-side, this unfamiliar England so vastly dif¬ 
ferent from that grander, wilder country beyond seas. 
Here, instead of lofty mountains, illimitable plains 
and mighty rivers, were gentle hills, smiling meadows 
and m^rmurous streams winding sleepily between 
reed and rush or bending willows; and his heart swelled 
because here was the home of his ancestors, his dead 
father’s England. He called to mind how often that 
lonely father, in voice a-thrill with yearning, had de¬ 
scribed to his childish fancy this very stretch of 
country: 

“ Where the land sweeps up to Firle, Davy, meadow 
and stream and copse, to Firle and the purple Downs 
beyond . . . O, the Down-country, Davy lad, the 
good, kind Down-country! ’Tis back there we’ll go 
together some day, God willing.” 

Reaching a gate, David leaned there and, soothed by 
brooding peace and restfulness about him, let his 
thoughts go back to his dead father, that solitary exile 
who had taught him to love and revere the mother who 
had died so long ago and the England he had never 
seen. 

It was hereabouts his father had played as a child. 


198 The Loring Mystery 

perhaps within the very wood that loomed before him] 
now, so very sombre and mysterious- 1 

David started, then stood very still and tense, for 
out from this wood had crept a shape which, slowly 
approaching, resolved itself into the figure of a man 
who limped wearily, aiding himself with a staff; sud¬ 
denly the man, espying David, halted to peer, and, ^ 
with a leap of the heart, David recognised Ben Bowker, f 
the ex-convict. 

In a moment David was over the gate, but Bowker 
never stirred. 

‘‘Wot . . . is it you, chum!” he exclaimed softly 
as David drew near. “Lord love me, I thought as 
they’d got me at last! ” 

“ Who ? ” questioned David. “ Who should get you, 
and for what.?” 

“Them Bow Street coves . . . for a job as I never 
done.” 

“You mean . . . the murder.?” 

“ Ay! Nigh ’ad me once, they did. Ye see I’m 
sick, chum, sick . . . Tom Yaxley (curse ’im!) give 
me pretty well as much as I give ’im t’other night, 
and now them Bow Street Runners is arter me for a 
thing as I never done.” 

“Meaning the murder.?” 

“ Ay. I’m innocent as a babby in arms, chum.” 

“ You left your hat there.” 

“ Ay, I knows I did, bad luck to it I But so would 
you ... so would any man as ’card wot I ’card I ” 

“ Tell me.” 

“ Why, so I will, chum, only let’s sit down, my leg’s 
easier sitting.” 

“Now tell me,” said David in the same level tones; 
“tell me everything you know of Sir Nevil Loring’s 
death.” 

“ ’E deserved all ’e got! ” said Bowker fiercely. 
“ And I meant to do it . . . went there to do it, I 




The Murder Described 199 

did, but I never got a chance . . . somebody was 
just afore me, chum.” 

“Tell me!” 

“Well, it would be along o’ twelve o’clock, I rackon, 
afore I reached the ’ouse. . . 

“Twelve o’clockYou are sure.?” 

“Ay, ye see, Tom Yaxley ’ad ’urt me more than 
I thought and I was forced to rest every now and 
then . . . but ’urt or no I meant to finish an’ be done 
wi’ Sir Nevil for good an’ all. So on I limped, though 
it took me a goodish time, through the wood an’ over 
the wall and come to the ’ouse at last to find it all dark 
except one winder on the terrace; the curtains wasn’t 
quite drawed and peeping between ’em I see . . . 
’im!” 

“ Alive ? ” 

“Ay, that ’e was, and smiling with his white teeth 
showing . . . the old smile as used to raise the devil 
in me years ago. Well, I crep’ away, chum-” 

“ Did you see . . . anyone with him ? ” 

“ Not me, I didn’t wait, chum. I crep’ away round 
to a winder I remembered ... I knows the place in¬ 
side and out . . . and’t wasn’t long afore I ’ad that 
winder open. So in I went, and took out the knife I’d 
brought for ’im.” 

“What sort of knife.?” 

“This ’ere, chum,” and Bowker showed a short, 
strong, broad-bladed knife such as butchers might use. 

“You didn’t chance to find a knife ... in the 
wood, then.?” 

“Not me, chum! Wot like o’ knife.?” 

“No matter! Go on!” 

“Well, there was me creepin’ across the room quite 
cool an’ steady. I’d took off my ’at to stifie ’im with 
if he’d happened to scream . . . and I’d just stepped 
into the passage when I ’eard ’im begin to laugh . . . 
ah, and well I knowed it, chum, soft-like and mockin’ 



200 


The Loring Mystery 

it was, and I gripped my knife tighter. But . . . O, 
chum ... all at once this laugh ended . . . sudden¬ 
like . . . ended in a wet, chokin’ cough ... a sound 
as I never want to ’ear again, a sound as turned me 
cold . . . me, chum — me as ’ad come to end ’im! 
There I stood ice-cold and tremblin’ like a scared child, 
for I knowed wot that ’ere sound meant! ” 

“Yes! . . . And then?” 

“I dropped my ’at, chum!” 

“Did you hear . . . anything . . . more?” 

“ Ay, I did. I ’eerd the creak of a stair and a rustle 
like a woman’s gown might make agin the panel¬ 
ling-” 

“ Or a man’s coat! ” 

“Why, it might, chum, ay — it might, though it 
seemed more like a woman’s gownd to me.” 

“And was this . . . all?” 

“No. Arter a bit, all bein’ quiet, I crep’ to the 
room; the door was open and I see-” 

“Were the candles alight, then?” 

“Ay, chum, they was . . . and there ’e sat, chum 
. . . dead an’ bloody . . . and squintin’ up at the 
ceiling — laughing still! I knowed ’e were stone dead, 
but I ’ad to go a bit nearer . . . and then I ’eerd a 
step cornin’ down the stair — soft-like-” 

“ A man’s step ? ” 

“ Yes, a man’s step, chum. So I turned tail . . . 
out through the winder and away, clean forgettin’ my 
’at, curse it! And that’s the gospel truth of it, 
chum! ” 

For a while David sat staring down at his right 
hand, which was opening and closing spasmodically, 
until at last Bowker ventured to touch him: 

“ You believe me, chum, don’t ye? ” he questioned 
wistfully. “You believe as I’ve told you everything 
gospel true?” 

Then looking into the speaker’s haggard face, David 





The Murder Described 201 

bowed his head and spoke in a voice that was like a 
groan: 

“ O God help me . . . yes! ” 

“Ain’t sick, are ye, chum?” 

“ No! ” 

“Well, I am — leastways my leg is. And ’ere’s me 
’unted like a wild beast, all along o’ my ’at, for a job as 
I never done, which is crool ’ard luck. ... I s’pose 
you ain’t got anything eatable about ye, chum? I’ve 
been laying low in the woods all day, and a man must 
eat. You ain’t got such a thing as a crust, chum?” 

“ I can bring you food,” said David, “ and will do 

so gladly if you will wait-” 

“No, no, chum, thankin’ you kindly, the risk’s too 
great, you might be seen an’ follered . . . that theer 
Bow Street cove is a sharp ’un as traps go, but ’e ’ll be 
sharper yet to ketch me. I knows the country ’ere- 
abouts like my ’and— ah, better ! ” 

“And how about money? Here are thirty-odd shil¬ 
lings left of the two guineas you lent me-” 

“ Keep ’em, chum, keep ’em. I got plenty, though 
I’d give it all for a mug of ale an’ a square meal.” 

“ Is there nothing I can do for you, Ben Bowker ? ” 
“ Why — yes,” ' answered the ex-convict, a little 
wistfully, “ you might wish me luck, chum ... I 
ain’t ’ad much, so fur! . . . And likewise . . . your 
’and . . . friendship-like . . . and to show as you be¬ 
lieve as I’ve spoke ye gospel true.” 

So David grasped Ben Bowker’s hand and shook it 
heartily: 

“ Good luck to you, Ben ! ” said he. “ A merciful 
Providence has kept you from crime to some good 
purpose. So here’s wishing you joy of it, Ben, with 
all good luck and happiness at last. . . . And if ever 
you should find your Nancy, you go to her innocent of 

your enemy’s blood, with clean hands-” 

Ben Bowker sighed hopelessly and shook his head: 





202 


The Loring Mystery 

“ My little Nan! Poor, lost creetur! Things might 
ha’ gone kinder wi’ me if she ’ad lived. . . . But she’s 
dead, chum, or she’d ha’ come back ’ome afore this, 
back to ’er old mother as is a-waiting for ’er all day 
an’ every day and prayin’ for ’er every night over 
yonder in Lewes.” 

“ In Lewes ? ” repeated David. “ Does her mother 
live in Lewes ” 

“Ay, keeps a little shop she do, in the High Street] 
just over the-” 

“Yes,” said David, “a little huckster’s shop . . . 
just over the bridge . . . name of Martin-” 

“True enough, chum, but ’ow should you know the 
name was- ? ” 

“ It was told me on London Bridge scarce two 
months ago, by a solitary woman whose face bore 
marks of sorrow but nothing evil-” 

Rising upon his knees, Bowker reached out and 
caught David by the arms. 

“ Chum,” said he, hoarsely. “ God love ye, chum 
. . . d’ye mean my little Nan . , . my Nancy . . . 
alive.P O chum, be this.true.?” 

“ As true as God, Ben 1 ” 

Now at this, being yet upon his knees, the ex-convict 
bowed his head as one in prayer: 

“ Then I believe,” said he, “ I do believe there is a 
God, arter all! . . . So, God bless ye, chum! I’m 
away for London this very night to find my little Nan 
because my ’ands are clean, chum! Ay, and find ’er 
I will if it takes me all my days! ” 

Rising painfully, Ben Bowker stood a moment, his 
haggard face uplifted to the radiant night sky; then 
grasping David’s hand suddenly he wrung it hard and, 
without another word, turned and limped upon his 
way. 






CHAPTER XXX 


Mr. Shrig Demonstrates the Element of Surprise 

Long after the ex-convict had hobbled out of sight, 
David stood staring yet upon the empty air, a man 
dismayed, tortured by Doubt grown stronger, more 
insistent, and harassed by an ever-growing fear, “ — a 
rustle like a woman’s gown might make against the 
panelling.” 

After some while he went on again, but walking 
mechahically now, heeding no more the peaceful scene 
around him, his mind obsessed by dark and brooding 
thought. 

Careless alike of direction or fatigue, he wandered 
on until at last he found himself on the outskirts of 
Loring village, its clustered cottages dark and silent, 
its rustic folk asleep hours ago. 

“Was she asleep?” he wondered. . . . And surely 
sleep was a thrice-blessed thing, a gentle anodyne for 
troubled souls, a blissful surcease from pain of mind 
and body. . . . Well, he also would seek this kindly 
solace, he himself who needed it so bitterly. . . . 

Before him, sharply defined against the moon, rose 
the age-worn tower of Loring Church in the shadow of 
whose hoary walls lay so many Lorings: Nevils and 
Humphreys and Davids, back and back to that mail- 
clad Sir David who, limping home from King Richard’s 
Crusade, built the church as a thank-offering; a large 
and diverse company to whose numbers another Nevil 
would so soon be added: 


204 


The Loring Mystery 

Sacred to the Memory 

OF 

Sir Nevil Loring 
Thirteenth Baronet 

Where now was the unlovely soul of him, plunged 
with such sudden violence into that dark unknown 
whence there was no returning? 

Moved by sudden impulse, David crossed the wide 
road and entering the churchyard paced slowly between 
grassy mounds and crumbling tombstones, pausing 
ever and anon to read a name and speculate upon such 
as slept below, once so full of life, and now . . . 

A wheezing cough at no great distance cut these 
reflections short and, glancing about, David was 
amazed and somewhat startled to espy a smock-frocked 
old man, perched upon a flat tombstone, beckoning with 
bony finger. 

“ Come ’ere, sir — come ’ere ! ” croaked this appari¬ 
tion. “ If ye bain’t afeart o’ the ghostesses, come ’ere 
an’ I ’ll tell’ee summat.” 

Wondering, David approached and saw this for a 
very ancient man whose face, prodigiously wrinkled, 
pendulous of nose and wide of mouth, leered up at 
him through a bush of white hair and whisker. 

“ And pray,” enquired David in his friendly manner, 
“what might you be doing here at such a time o’ 
night ? ” 

“I’ve ’ad a quar’l wi’ me darter,” answered Patri¬ 
arch, “ an’ when sich be so Oi generally-arlways comes 
out ’ere an’ sets among these ’ere tombses for to plague 
’er . . . she das sent come arter me ’ere of a night 
’count o’ the ghostesses.” 

“But isn’t it rather cold for you?” 

“Why, ye see, Oi only plagues ’er this way o’ foine 
noights. If it du rain Oi goes into the pig-sty . . . 
an’ when it be cold Oi gets into the ’ay-loft — wi’ a 


The Element of Surprise 205 

! pitch-fork! . . . But Oi loikes a grave-yard best — 
[graves is in my blood, and comes nat’ral to me.” 

“ You don’t fear ghosts, then.^^ ” 

“ Bless ’ee, no sir 1 Ghostes, graves an’ dead-men’s 
bones is meat an’ drink to Oi, as ye might say, me 
’aving been brought up wi’ ’em from me cradle. . . . 
Ye see, my feyther were a sextant.” 

“ Indeed ” 

“ Ah! Smelt o’ graves ’e did — ’specially in the wet 
weather. . . . Made me a doll outen a thigh-bone ’e 
did, an’ Oi useter call it ‘Bossy’ arter parson’s dun 
cow . . . never would go to bed without it, not Oi. 
You’m a stranger, eh, young man.^ ” 

“Yes. Though we have met once before, 1 think,” 
David replied. 

“Why, then, ’ave ye ’eered of our murder? Us 
doan’t get murders in these parts so frequent as Lewes 
nor yet Lon’on, but when us do . . . Lewes an’ 
Lon’on’s nowheres 1 An’ now we got a wonnerful 
murder . . . O wonnerful I ” Here the hoary one 
rocked himself back and forth upon the tombstone 
wheezing rapturously. “ Somebody’s been an’ took 
an’ murdered our Squire . . . ’es they ’ave, murdered 
Squire Loring as arl the world was afeard of, ’specially 
poor folk . . . dead ’e be! My son dole be ’elpin’ to 
mak’ ’is tomb arl ready for ’e. They be a-goin’ to 
bury Squire so soon as the Crowner’s ’quested an’ set 
on ’im . . . ’im ’aving been murdered to death. An’ 
Oi bean’t nowise a-breekin’ my old ’eart over ’im 
neether, no — glad Oi be! ” 

“ Why?” 

“Becos’ Squire be better dead . . . why, ’e ’ad me 
put in the stocks once, ’e did, an’ me arl a-quake wi’ 
the axey. But now ’e’s gone — dead ’e be, an’ nobody 
doan’t know ’00 done it. ... A mistree — hey, young 
maaster? ” 

“ Yes, a mystery! ” sighed David. 


2 o6 The Loring Mystery 

Here the old man rocked and wheezed and chuckled 
more ghoulishly than ever. 

“Why do you laugh?” 

“ Becos’ . . . O Lord! ” chuckled the Patriarch, 
embracing himself ecstatically. “ Stoop down an’ I ’ll 
whisper . . . Oi knows ’oo done it, Oi do! ” 

“ Indeed!” 

“ Ah! An’ . . . wot’s more, Oi seen . . . the 
knife I ” 

David leant nearer: * 

“What sort of knife?” he questioned sharply. 

“A mighty sharp ’un! Ah . . . sharp as a needle! 
And wi’ a silver ’andle on to it . . .” 

“Silver?” exclaimed David, starting. “A silver 
handle?” 

“ Ah! ” nodded the old man, “ Silver ! ” 

“How . . . where did you see it? Who showed it 
to you? ” 

“Why, she did!” 

“She? ... A woman?” 

“Ah! Miss ’Clea!” 

David sank down on the tomb beside the old man 
and, removing his hat, closed his eyes like one suddenly 
faint. 

“ Miss ’Clea be a gurt friend o’ mine.” 

“When did she . . . show it you, and . . . 
where ? ” 

“ I seen ’er buy it offen a gipsy-body . . . give a 
golden guinea for it, she did! That were the first 
time Oi seen it.” 

“ And when was the second ? ” 

“ The day afore the murder.” 

“ Where?” 

“Well, young sir, me not being afeart o’ ghostesses, 
Oi ’appened to go over to the ’aunted mill-” 

“Where is that?” 

“Why, that be th’ owd Weer Mill at Loring; Oi 



The Element of Surprise 207 

went theer in the evening arter a trout as Oi knowed on 

in the pool, when up comes Tom Yaxley-” 

'‘‘Ha — Yaxley!” repeated David. 

“Ah — Tom Yaxley! And in a flamin’ fury an’ 
wot ’s more, ’e ’d been drinkin’! ‘ Look at this ’ere! ’ 

’e says an’ shows me one side of ’is face arl swole an’ 
red. ‘Wot’s done that?’ says Oi. ‘Squire’s cane!’ 
j says he, ‘ But ’e won’t never do it no more! ’ ’e says. 

: ‘ ’E will,’ says Oi, ‘’t is a word an’ a blow wi’ Squire, 

! man or maid.’ ‘ ‘ Well, ’e wun’t strike me no more! ’ 

! says Tom, fierce-like. ‘Why not?’ says Oi. ‘ Becos’ 
’e ’ll be dead!’ says Tom. ‘Not ’im!’ Oi says, ‘’is 
sort don’t die nat’ral an’ nobody dassent face Squire, 
more’s the pity,’ Oi says. ‘Well, ’e wun’t live long,’ 
says Tom, quiet-like. ‘Why not?’ says Oi. ‘For a 
mighty good reason!’ says Tom. ‘Wot reason?’ says 
Oi. ‘This!’ says Tom, snarlin’ arl to oncet an’ spit¬ 
ting mad-like, an’ shows me that theer knife wi’ the 
silver ’andle. ‘Where did ye get that?’ Oi says, 
‘That be Miss ’Clea’s,’ says Oi. ‘ So much the better ! ’ 
says ’e . . . and away ’e goes.” 

“Yaxley!” said David, and stood upon his feet. 
“Have you spoken of this to anyone else? ” 

“Nary a soul, young maaster.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because Oi caan’t nowise never get nobody to ’ark 
to Oi — the gurt fules ! ” 

“And Yaxley had the knife . • it was the same 
knife — you are sure?” 

“ Ah, sartin sure, Oi be. . . , An’ now, young sir, 
Oi think as Oi plagued me darter about sufficient fur 
one night . . . ’sides, this ’ere stone begins to strike 
a bit chill-like, so rackon Oi ’ll be gettin’ ’ome to bed.” 

So saying, the old man arose; and side by side they 
left the dismal spot. 

“Friend,” said David, “what is your name?” 

“Jole, sir, same as me son, Jole Bybrook . . . Oi 




2o8 The Loring Mystery 

be old Jole an’ me son ’e be young Jole, though ’e 
bean’t no babby! ” 

Then, friend Joel, pray take these coins as a mark 
of ... of my esteem. ... You are quite sure the 
knife was the same?” 

“ Ah, sure as sure, sir. And thank’ee kindly.” 

“ And you have spoken of this to nobody? ” 

“ Nary a breathin’ soul . . . ’cept the straange, 
pleasant-spoke chap at ‘ The Rearing ’Orse ’ — ’im wi’ 
the top-boots-” 

“You mean Mr. Shri,g, the Bow Street Officer?” 

“Ah^—’im! An’ Oi only told ’e ’cos ’e seemed to 
know arl Oi ’ad to tell ’im afore Oi told it, an’ was 
so pleasant-spoke . . . ay, a mighty pleasant chap 
sure-ly! Good-night, young sir, an’ thank’ee koindly 
arl over again 1 ” 

And homeward tottered old Joel, leaving David a 
prey to new agitations and perplexity ... 

So Shrig had learned of the dagger, he knew now 
that it had been hers! . . . That accursed dagger! 
But tJien it was hidden far beyond all possible recovery. 
And in this thought was comfort 

The boom of the church bell chiming eleven startled 
him from these reflections; but ere he had left the 
sleeping village behind he was busily pondering the old 
man’s story: 

Could Yaxley’s have been the hand, indeed? , . . 
The thing was impossible! He had stepped over 
Yaxley’s unconscious body in pursuit of Bowker, 
who had reached Loring Chase in time to hear the 
crime committed. . . . And yet (if the old man’s story 
were true) Yaxley had been possessed of the dagger 
upon that fatal evening . . . clearly, then, it must 
have passed out of his keeping. . . . But how? And 
to whom? David halted suddenly, smitten by a new 
thought. Could it be possible that, in his struggle 
with Yaxley, Bowker had found and possessed himself 



The Element of Surprise 209 

of the dagger? Was Bowkerthe assassin after all . . . 
his story but a farrago of lies? 

Involved thus in an ever-deepening perplexity, David 
reached the inn at last and was surprised to see Mr. 
Shrig seated upon one of the benches, puffing his pipe 
in solitary estate. 

‘‘ Sir,” quoth Mr. Shrig, pipe solemnly flourished in 
salutation, “ I begs a vord.” 

“ As many as you like,” answered David. 

“Then p’r’aps you’ll sit down-” 

“No,” said David, “not until you’ve heard me ex¬ 
press regret for my anger this evening. ... I regret 
my words but not my act . . . and truly intended 
you no offence-” 

“ None took, pal, none took , . . though, to be 
sure, ‘ Soulless beast ’ vas cornin’ of it a bit strongish- 
like.” 

“ Then pray forgive it.” 

“Heartily, pal . . . an’ spoke like a man! . . . 
Though, to be sure, you did make avay wi’ a piece o’ 
ewidence, vich, as a nofficer o’ the law, I’m bound to 
say vas a misdemeanour . . . but then, as a pal, I’m 
ready to admit as your love or, shall we say, passion 
for Miss A., Number Two, excuses much-” 

“Love!” exclaimed David indignantly. “What the 
devil do you mean-? ” 

“Nat’ral affection ’twixt creeters as sexes differs, 
pal . . . but let that pass. As I say, being your pal, 
I makes allowances for your destruction of ewidence 
aforesaid . . . besides, I’ve come on other ewidence, 
better, ah — and surer! ” 

“You mean the tale old Joel told you?” 

“ No, pal, I means a tale as the corp’ told me. Since 
your aforementioned d. of e., pal, I’ve been over body 
o’ deceased, inch by inch, and the results, though sap¬ 
rising, is, on the whole, gratifying.” 

“You have found something . . . definite, Jasper?” 






210 


The Loring Mystery 

“The field is narrered, pal, the Six is now Five! 
Pretty soon, if the conclusions as IVe drawed is cor¬ 
rect, the Five will be Vun . . . The Vun!” 

“Are you . . . sure at last, Jasper, quite . . . 
quite sure ? ” 

“ Pal, there’s nothing sure but death! So let’s 
leave it at that an’ come to yourself. Now then: 
Sir David Loring you were. Sir David you are, and Sir 
David you will be ’enceforth in the heye o’ the law if 
you’ll say but the vord — and all along o’ Jarsper! ” 

“Pray explain.” 

“Above stairs a-finishing of ’is supper, pal, is a 
lawyer, name o’ Gillespie, a gent well-beknown to me 
and legal adwiser to the Loring family. Above stairs 
likevise is all them dockiments and papers as vas stole 
from you by the man who thereby saved your life be¬ 
yond all doubt.” 

“Poor miserable fellow!” 

“ It only remains for you to prove your i-dentity to 
Mr. G.’s satisfaction and in the heye o’ the law you are 
Sir David Loring of Loring, Barrynet and a werry 
rich gent into the bargain! Vot d’ye say to Jarsper 
now, pal.^” 

“ Thank him for his interest, and say, no! ” 

“Eh — no.P” exclaimed Mr. Shrig, “No, is it.?” 

“‘No’ it is, Jasper.” 

“Ecod!” exclaimed Mr. Shrig. “You can scrag 
. . . ah, an’ gibbet me if I ever ’eard sich barefaced 
flyin’ in the face o’ fortun’ — not to mention Prowi- 
dence! And for vhy.?” 

“For a very sufficient reason.” 

“ Blow me! ” gasped Mr. Shrig. “ A fortun’ an’ a 
title goin’ a-begging! . . . And ’oles in ’is boots! 
Your ’ead ain’t troublin’ you again, is it, pal.?” 

“ Thank you, no, Jasper.” 

“Why, then, ’ave a look at this ’ere.” And taking 
out his pocket-book, Mr. Shrig drew thence a folded 


The Element of Surprise 211 

paper which he opened and held out for David’s in¬ 
spection. The moon was very bright, and written in 
large, bold characters David read this: 

“ Copy of Sir N.’s Will for Jasper Shrig only. 

I, Nevil Loring etc., being sound in mind etc., do 
will and bequeath all that I die possessed of etc., to 
my Incorrigible Anticlea in the earnest hope and con¬ 
fident expectation that it may prove her ultimate 
damnation; provided and conditionally that she, the 
said Anticlea, submit herself absolutely to the guar¬ 
dianship of Her Grace the Duchess of Camberhurst 
until she, the aforesaid Anticlea, marry or attain the 
age of twenty-five. So may two felines flesh their 
claws, each upon each, to their separation or mutual 
extinction. It is further provided that, in the event 
of Her Grace of Camberhurst refusing this so arduous 
duty, the whole of the property I die possessed of etc., 
is bequeathed absolutely and unconditionally to my 
head game-keeper, Thomas Yaxley, that obedient 
scoundrel, him and his heirs for ever. And this I de¬ 
liver etc.” 

“ And there’s for ye! ” quoth Mr. Shrig as David 
refolded and gave back the document. “Vot say ye 
now, pal.? ” 

“I say no, Jasper! Since I am dead and buried — 
dead I’ll remain . . . for a time, at least.” 

“You mean as you refuse — still.?” 

“ Absolutely and utterly! ” 

“But how are ye goin’ to live, pal.? Vot are ye 
a-goin’ to do-.? ” 

“Just at present,” answered David, rising, “I am 
going to bed. Good-night, Jasper, and thank you.” 

“Blow my dickey!” ejaculated Mr. Shrig; and ris¬ 
ing also he followed David indoors. “ Pal David,” said 



212 The Loring Mystery 

he, as he lighted his chamber candle, “ the inqvest is 
to-morrow; you’ll go, I s’pose?” 

“I don’t know, Jasper. Shall you have much to 
say.?” 

“Not a vord, pal.” 

“Why so?” enquired David, staring. 

“ First because I’ve took precious good care not to 
be called, and second because I don’t come forrard wi’ 
ewidence till I’m ready wi’ my proofs, dammem! ” 

“When will that be?” 

“ Pal, I ’ll tell ye — it all depends ! ” 

“On what, Jasper?” 

Mr. Shrig’s candle being well alight, he turned so 
that its radiance struck full upon David’s face: 

“ It depends, pal, on ’ow soon you tell me vot you’ve 
done wi’ that there silver-’andled dagger! ” 

David fell back a step, staring in speechless conster¬ 
nation. 

“ Domino! ” said Mr. Shrig, with placid, smiling 
nod, “Domino me, pal! This ’ere is vot you might 
call the element o’ sap-rise. . . . Lord love ye, your 
phiz proves my deductions is right. . . . That there 
dagger, pal, as done the deed . . . The silver-’andled 
dagger as belongs to ... us knows ’oo! . . . The 
stil-letter, pal, along vith a ’arf sheet o’ paper, p’r’aps, 
as you found ... us knows vere . . . and as you’ve 
been and hid . . . vich only you knows vere! Justice 
demands ’em of you, your pal asks ’em of you. Think 
it over, pal, ’twixt now and to-morrow! Good-night, 
pal David, and . . ,. pleasant dreams.” 

Sayirfg which, Mr. Shrig went upstairs to bed, 
whistling cheerily under his breath. 


CHAPTER XXXI 

In Which Mr. Maulverer Proffers Advice 

In the spacious, sanded parlour of “The Loring 
Arms ” Inn, whose warped gables and twinkling case¬ 
ments seemed ever in the act of bowing and winking 
at the timeworn church opposite, the coroner and his 
chosen twelve duly and solemnly sat upon the case before 
a packed audience; amongst them, seated unobtrusively 
in a remote comer, a more or less interested spectator, 
David espied Mr. Shrig. 

Coroner and jury having gravely listened to Mrs. 
Belinda’s unhesitating, soft-spoken testimony, to An- 
ticlea’s sullen answers, to Mr. Maulverer’s calm and 
lucid statement, and to the more or less incoherent 
evidence of the servants; having questioned, cross- 
questioned and studied the weatherbeaten hat found 
on the scene of the crime; having pondered and de¬ 
liberated, the following conclusions were finally arrived 
at, namely: 

“ That Sir Nevil Loring, of Loring Chase in the 
County of Sussex, Baronet, upon the night of the third 
instant at the approximate hour of twelve midnight, 
had been stabbed into the body to the depth of four 
and a half inches by some sharp instrument whereof he 
had instantly died. Moreover, inasmuch as he had 
died by the act and will of some person or persons 
unknown, it was, therefore, clearly and beyond all 
doubt or cavil soever to be adjudged and declared a 
case of Wilful Murder against the said person or per¬ 
sons unknown.” 


214 The Loring Mystery 

The law thus fulfilled, coroner, jury and spectators 
betook themselves back whence they had come. And 
so the enquiry ended, to David’s inexpressible relief, 
whereto was presently added an increasing wonder; in¬ 
somuch that, espying Mr. Maulverer among the dis¬ 
persing crowd, he approached and touched him on the 
shoulder, whereupon that gentleman swung round with 
look so fierce and wild, so utterly different from his 
usual air of stately dignity and dark repression, that 
David recoiled instinctively: 

“ Your pardon! ” said he, “ I fear I startled you? ” 

“ Yes ... no! ... I was lost in thought! What 
do you want ? ” 

“A word apart,” said David. 

“My way lies across the meadow yonder.” 

Silently they crossed a stile and silently they walked 
together until, reaching a spot where they were hidden 
from the road, Mr. Maulverer halted. 

“Now, sir?” he demanded. 

Said David, “ I beg to know why in your evidence 
to-day you withheld all mention of my first meeting 
with Sir Nevil Loring? ” 

Mr. Maulverer glanced at David with his expression 
of sombre aloofness, while his long, white fingers toyed 
with the snowy frills at his bosom. 

“ That, sir, is my concern! ” he answered. 

“And mine also, I venture to think,” said David. 
“ It was not by reason of the overpowering goodwill 
you bear to me, I fear.” 

Mr. Maulverer’s sardonic smile was an eloquent 
answer. 

“You are at liberty to assume it was, sir,” he smiled. 
“ I refrained from exposing you to an odious notoriety 
and risks infinitely worse, from pure good-fellowship.” 

“You are pleased to be satirical, sir!” said David, 
flushing. “None the less 1 duly acknowledge the 
service.” 


Mr. Maulverer’s Advice 215 

Si “ We will take your gratitude for granted, sir. At 
I the same time might I suggest you would find any 
, other part of England more suited to your peculiar 
temperament.” 

“Possibly, sir — but I find the country hereabouts 
charmingly agreeable and have not been here long 
enough to weary.” 

“None the less, sir, I almost think you were wiser 
to —go.” 

“ Is this a threat ” enquired David, gently. 

“Let us rather say — advice — for your own good.” 

“Your interest in my welfare is flattering, sir. . . . 
But indeed, sensible as I am of the service you rendered 
me to-day in withholding my name from your testi¬ 
mony, I do confess myself puzzled to account for 
your silence . . . under the circumstances.” 

“ Sir, I speak or am silent as I think fit! ” 

“ Precisely! ” retorted David. “ For instance, sir, 
it would be vastly interesting to know how much you 
might tell in regard to a certain silver-hilted stiletto.” 

Mr. Maulverer’s stately figure seemed to shrink 
oddly; his eyes stared, while his face flushed from 
white to scarlet and from scarlet to a deadly pallor; 
twice it seemed he would have spoken, but instead he 
turned suddenly and hurried away; once he stumbled 
over some inequality of the ground but sped on, all 
unheeding, like one who fled some great and impending 
danger. . . . But, while David yet watched, he turned 
suddenly and came hasting back again: 

“ Sir,” said he, speaking in a voice David hardly 
recognised, so low and shaken was it, “ sir . . . what¬ 
ever you chance to know concerning that fatal weapon, 
I would . . . most humbly beg . . . implore you to 
mention it to no one ... to no one ... or you will 
surely bitterly regret it. . . . O, bitterly! ” 

Then, in the same wild, disordered fashion, he turned 
and hasted on his way. 



2i6 The Loring Mystery 

And so, in the fullness of time, upon a fair, sunny 
afternoon, all that was earthly of Sir Nevil Loring was 
borne to the tomb of his ancestors, watched by a crowd 
of staring rustics from Loring and the neighbouring 
villages, of burly farmers, with country squires and 
gentry from near and far; a solemn, whispering, 
motley company, but, one and all, thither drawn by 
morbid curiosity, a sordid interest in one whose final 
exit had been so dramatic, so sensational, so mysteri¬ 
ous 1 

“ In the midst of life we are in death! ” 

Perfectly true, to be sure! But how very pleasant 
to be alive that one might shiver so deliciously, stealing 
a glance from the shade of the coquettish bonnet or 
modish hat-brim, towards the sombre velvet pall 
whose heavy, sullen folds draped that poor, blood¬ 
stained clay. 

“ Ashes to ashes, dust to dust I ” 

How horribly loud the rattling of falling earth! 

“I am the resurrection and the life!” . . . 

So many ears to hear, so many eyes to see, and never 
a sob or pitying tear . . . no, not one! 

Thus, then, they laid Sir Nevil Loring to his long 
repose, hid him alike from the kindly sun and the 
curious stare of all those unpitying eyes. Which done, 
the spectators, decorously murmurous, moved away 
and were presently gone, homing to country mansion, 
to solitary farm or clustered cottage, there to discuss 
again the entrancing and horrible mystery in all its 
gruesome details, to shiver daintily, nod wisely, or 
formulate profound theories according to their many 
and various mentalities. 

At last, the church being empty, came David where, 
newly carveh upon a timeworn stone, he might read 
the legend: 


Mr. Maulverer’s Advice 217 

Sacred to the Memory 

OF 

Sir Nevil Loring of Loring, Sussex 
Aged 52 

Thirteenth Baronet. 

I 

Now as David stood thus, leaning in the shade of a 
pillar, arms folded upon his bosom, he started at the 
sound of quick, light footsteps and beheld Mrs. Belinda, 
who, all unconscious of his presence, sank to her knees 
before that ancient monument, her slight, girlish form 
convulsed with painful sobs, her white head bowed 
upon frail hands in a passion of woe, while from her 
unseen lips issued a hurry of words in tender, whisper¬ 
ing voice shaken by her grief: 

“O, Nevil — Nevil! You were wicked to her . . . 
cruel — ah, bitterly cruel to poor me . . . but now — 
now that you are dead . . . O, Nevil — Nevil . . . 
my love follows you ... is with you still ... al¬ 
ways, Nevil, always and . . . for ever!” 

Softly, reverently, David crept away; for the dead 
had found one to mourn him at last, one to sob and 
shed a pitying tear, after aU. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


The People’s Peactitionee Philosophises on 
Physic 

Eaely morning with a broad beam of sunshine flood¬ 
ing in at the open lattice; and as if borne upon this 
glory came a merry whistling, very clear and sweet 
and full of unexpected flourishes and grace notes; in¬ 
somuch that David paused in his dressing to thrust 
tousled head out of window. In the quiet yard, almost 
immediately below, was a little man in snowy shirt¬ 
sleeves, black velvet smalls and Hessian boots, very 
busy at a large table whereon were ranged rows upon 
rows of small bottles or phials; these he was filling 
with a dark-brown liquid which he ladled from a bucket; 
and all with such rapid dexterity, such nicety and pre¬ 
cision as was a wonder to behold. At length, every 
phial having received its exact allowance, the little 
man set by bucket and ladle and had reached a handful 
of corks from the bag beside him when, chancing to 
glance upwards, he espied David, whereupon olf came 
his broad-brimmed hat in salutation. 

“ A glorious morning, Mr. Peabody! ” said David. 

“Glorious indeed, sir! I trust your liver, that 
noble organ, is sufficiently resilient to permit of your 
just appreciation of so fair a morn? ” 

“You have forgotten me, I guess, Mr. Peabody!” 

“ Indeed, sir, I see countless faces, physionomies a- 
plenty per diem. . . . However! Let me think.” 

“In Loring Wood!” suggested David, “and it was 
my head, not liver.” 


A Discourse on Physic 219 

‘‘ Ah, to be sure! Though thou ’rt changed, me- 
thinks, corpore sano . . . hum! Your appearance is 
enhanced by outer application aqwa pura and a shaven 
jowl. And how goes the cracked pericranium.^ 
Better.?^ ” 

“ Thanks to your kindness ! ” 

Rather say to my corn cure. And how are you 
personally — stomach, for instance.?” 

“Empty!” laughed David. 

“Descend, then, and let us fill it. You shall break¬ 
fast with me — my welcome guest-” 

“ No, no,” said David. 

“ Yes, yes! ” cried Mr. Peabody. “ Aho, Tom I 
Within there, Thomas I ” he called. 

“ Yes, Mus’ Peabody! ” And out from a small, un¬ 
expected window popped landlord Tom’s bullet head. 

“More eggs and rashers, Tom, I’ve an empty 
guest-” 

“ No, no I ” cried David from above. 

“Yes, yes!” cried Peabody from below, ramming 
corks at remarkable speed. “Eating in company aids 
digestion—result, comfort and good fellowship. Gob¬ 
bling alone clogs the vital organs, promoting dyspepsia 
. . . result, misery, malevolence and murder ! And 
talking of murder-” 

“ Don’t! ” said David. 

“Very good!” answered Mr. Peabody. “Perhaps 
when you ’re ready you ’ll come down and cork a bottle 
or so.? ” 

“With pleasure!” answered David. And presently, 
his toilet achieved, he joined Mr. Peabody in the yard. 
“And pray,” he enquired, surveying the very many 
small bottles, “ do these contain the famous corn 
cure.?” 

“They do!” rejoined Mr. Peabody, “though with 
a slight difference, for by the addition of a certain 
tincture the corn cure becomes Peabody’s Priceless 





220 The Loring Mystery 

Purgative, the Stomach’s Succour or Seasonable 
Stomachic, gentle as a southern zephyr, searching as 
an east wind, efficacious as an earthquake. One table- ^ 
spoonful after meals and life becomes a melody, a glad, | 
sweet song. And all for one shilling, or three bottles 
for eighteen pence. . . . Ha, you smile, I think ' 

‘‘ Forgive me, Mr. Peabody, but your allitera- ^ 
tion-” ^ ^ I 

“ Is an aid, sir! People like alliterative titles in the ; 
same way as they like their medicine to look and smell ; 
and taste like medicine, and I give ’em what they desire. 

. . . And look’ee, young man, I’m no quack . . . aty • 
least, I quack but gently. . . . However! Were all 
the medicines sold to an innocent and eager public as 
wholesome as Peabody’s specifics the world would be a 
happier place and less full of evil. . . . And, talking 
of evil-” 

“ Don’t 1 ” said David. “ Tell me rather of yourself.” 

‘‘Why, then, sir, I am very well, thanks to Heaven 
and an active liver! Business flourishes, particularly 
as regards the Purgative. Indeed, there has been such 
a demand for it at the fair that I was forced to hasten 
back here—(I leave my drugs, herbs and simples in 
Tom’s charge)—hurry back, as I say, and brew a fresh 
joram. Also the Corn Cure is eagerly sought, and my 
Pills for the Pallid have been snapped up by the Sex 
with an avidity remarkable. Now, should you think 
of joining me, young man, I can keep you busy morn¬ 
ing, noon and night and pay you as much as one guinea 
per week to begin! Think it over.” 

Here out popped landlord Tom’s head again to an¬ 
nounce: 

“Breakfus’ be a-waiting, gen’lemen.” 

So in they went forthwith; and a truly appetising 
meal they found set out upon a fair white cloth, ham 
and eggs and fragrant coffee very grateful to the 
nostrils of a hungry man. 




A Discourse on Physic 221 

“And now, sir,” quoth the Poor Person’s Practi¬ 
tioner as they sat down: 

“May good digestion wait on appetite; 

If not> Peabody’s Purge will put you right! ” 

Here for a space was an eloquent silence. 

“The secret of all good medicine, sir,” said Mr. 
Peabody at last, fork a-flourish, “ the secret of each 
and every successful specific for the alleviation of cor¬ 
poreal woes is HgO with as much Mystery as possible. 
Ah, mystery is the thing! The human mind, sir, re¬ 
veres whatsoever it cannot understand, puts off its 
shoes and bows its addle-head to Mystery! . . . Hence 
your quacks, wizards, necromancers, priests, ay, and 
philosophers — such as Pythagoras, who lectured from 
the mystery of a drawn curtain. . . . Be a fool the 
most egregious, or rogue ingrain and sufficiently mys¬ 
terious, and you shall be reverenced, followed, quoted 
and generally remarked. Be wise and simply good, 
scorning all shallow trickery, artifice or affectation, 
and the crowd will pass you by unheeded. . . . How¬ 
ever ! . . . But, talking of mysteries, this dismal affair 
of Sir Nev-” 

“ The mystery to me,” said David hastily, “ is how 
you will contrive to carry so many bottles as far as 
Lewes Fair.?” 

“ Very simply, young man. I have bespoken Jim 
Crook’s pony and cart. Now, as to yourself—do you 
become a disciple of ^sculapius, following in the foot¬ 
steps of Galen, Hippocrates and Peabody, at one 
guinea per week.? Ay or no.?” 

“ Thank you sincerely for your offer, but-” 

“ You won’t! ” nodded Mr. Peabody. “ Ha! Corns, 
coughs, colds and colics being not sufficiently romantic 
for your aspiring and soaring soul — eh, sir.?” 

“ Indeed,” answered David, “ I feel myself so lacking 

55 


in 





222 


The Loring Mystery 

“Hold! As your friend and well-wisher, sir, let me 
suggest that you learn to speak with accent a little less 
bleat-like.” 

“ Sir.P ” exclaimed David, flushing. “ If you allude 
to my-” 

“I do!” nodded the People’s Practitioner, “You 
bleat, sir! Affected and outlandish speech is remark¬ 
able and apt to prejudice the vulgar ear against you. 
Moreover, to be remarkable in any way—^ except for 
business purposes — argues either a blatant ostenta¬ 
tion or preposterous self-esteem. . . . And now you 
are offended, I presume ? However! ” 

“No, indeed!” answered David, and laughed. 

“ Glad of it, sir, for anger is so much waste of energy 
which is life. The passion of anger being highly in¬ 
flaming to the-” 

“ O, Mus’ Peabody, if you please — axing your 
pardin’, I’m sure! ” 

On the threshold a buxom, neat-clad damsel stood 
curtseying, whom Mr. Peabody gravely saluted. 

“Well, Mary Bybrookhe enquired. 

“ O, please, sir, was the stuff as Grandfer got from 
you in the li’l bottle for ’is cough or ’is corns .P” 

“His corns, Mary. They are soothed and I trust 
forgotten by this ? ” 

“Lor, Mus’ Peabody, I dunno. . . . Ye see, 
Grandfer went an’ took it — swallered it arl ... in 
three gollops ’e did! ” 

“Ah, indeedsaid the People’s Practitioner, no 
whit perturbed, “ swallowed it, did he, child.? ” 

“Every drop, sir! Grandfer be an ’og wi’ medicine 
sure-ly! ” 

“ Truly medicine seems a vice with him.” 

“But wot about ’is pore old innards, sir.?” 

“How did it affect him.?” 

“Wonnerful, sir! Went an’ sat ’isself in the pig-pen 
an’ sang, ’e did!” 




A Discourse on Physic 223 

“ Sang, eh, Mary ? ” 

“Ay, so merry as a grig, sir! Said it done ’un a 
power o’ good.” 

“ Quite so! ” nodded the Poor People’s Practitioner. 
“This is one of the many virtues of Peabody’s Corn 
Cure — it may be taken anyhow, at any time, in or 
out.” 

“ But there bean’t no corns in Grandfer’s stummick 
sure-ly, sir.?” 

“ Nor ever will be now, Mary, rest assured.” 

“ Why, then, sir, ’e do want another bottle if you ’ll 
be so kind.” 

Out stepped the People’s Practitioner forthwith and 
presently returned bearing one of the newly charged 
phials; quoth he: 

^‘Let your grandfather take a tablespoonful of this 
after meals; it will sit as comfortably on his ancient 
stomach as the Corn Cure and be more palatable in the 
taking.” 

“ O, thank’ee kindly, sir I ” And the buxom Mary 
curtseyed and tendered a shilling in payment. Mr. 
Peabody took it, glanced at it and gave it back. 

“ Child,” said he, “ since your grandfather is so very 
aged you shall pay me half-price, give me sixpence — 
nay, give me a groat.” 

“Well, sir.?” he demanded of David when the girl 
had departed vociferous with gratitude. “Well, sir, 
and why glare at me.?” 

“ O, surely, sir, to so deceive these innocent folk is 
a crime! ” said David. “ Why impose thus upon their 
ignorance.? ” 

Mr. Peabody sighed and, leaning 5ack in his chair, 
surveyed David a little wistfully: 

“ Sir,” said he, “ you shall be answered. Once upon 
a time, sir, I was rich, as young as you and conse¬ 
quently a fool! Being young, rich and a fool I com¬ 
mitted three preposterous solecisms: I married a woman 


224 The Loring Mystery 

for her beauty, made friend of a rogue, and bought race¬ 
horses—^with the very natural result that my horses 
ruined me, my wife deserted me and my rascally friend 
shot me through the lung, which last happily caused 
me to forget my mundane sorrows a while . . . 
However! . . . Upon my recovery, being destitute 
and consequently friendless, I grew desperate and 
sought forgetfulness ... in the slime, sir, Down 
went I and down into such sordid filth as only we 
higher animals may ever descend to; the nobler horse 
or dog would ha’ perished. . . . However! . . . But 
there, among that festering fiotsam of humanity, I 
found Salvation, a flower on a dung-hill, a thing of 
Heaven unsoiled as yet. . . . She was six years old 
and dying of neglect and ill-usage. We fled together 
— out and away to the green fields and fragrant woods 
and lived as we might, starving when we must, but 
she was used to that, and I — was a man at last. . . . 
I had dallied with medicine in my languid college days. 
. . . And thus it befell that, in a cottage in Patcham 
Village which nestles under the Down above Brighton, 
was evolved upon this terrestrial sphere that now justly 
celebrated panacea Peabody’s Pills for the Pallid. . . . 
The years have rolled since then; to-day my hair is 
grey and she is sixteen, finishing her education at an 
Academy in Brighton, but yearning, yes — yearning 
to mother-and-daughter me in the cottage we have 
dreamed of hereabouts . . . for she is my Salvation still, 
and will be . . . unto the end. ... So you’ll per¬ 
ceive, sir, that if I quack now and then, I quack but 
gently, to nobody’s hurt . . . and in good cause. . . . 
Now, talking of crime-” 

“ Sir,” said David, “ I am answered and . . . there 
is my hand!” 

“ And at the door,” said Mr. Peabody as their fingers 
gripped, “is Jim Crook’s young man with the cart. 
Perhaps you will help me to load up my Stomachic.? ” 



A Discourse on Physic 225 

After some while, the very many bottles being 
stowed securely in the vehicle, Mr. Peabody climbed in, 
gathered up the reins and, glancing down at David, 
patted the seat invitingly: 

“ A fine morning for a ride! ” said he. ‘‘ And I 
should much like your company.” So David mounted, 
Mr, Peabody chirrupped to the pony, and off they 
went at a smart trot. 

‘‘Talking of crime,” said Mr. Peabody again, “I 
am probably one of the last who saw Sir Nevil Loring 
alive and walking abroad on that fatal night.” 

“Indeed?” said David. 

“A splenetic creature of ungoverned passions who, 
but for me, would have murdered his own head keeper.” 

“You mean the man Yaxley?” 

“The same. ... It chanced that, being short of a 
certain herb. Nasturtium officinale, vulgarly known as 
watercress, I went that evening along the stream where 
I knew it grew prolific. While engaged in gathering 
the herb I was disturbed by one approaching, and 
beheld Yaxley muttering to himself and cherishing 
some object between his huge hands. He had reached 
a spot opposite my post of observation when he started 
about with a sort of leap at the sound of two words 
very softly uttered: ‘Treacherous animal!’ Sir, I 
have never heard two words carry such deadly malevo¬ 
lence! . . . And out from the bushes limped Sir Nevil 
Loring, with the very face of smiling Murder. And 
seeing this face, Yaxley’s legs seemed to give way, for 
down he plumped upon his knees. ‘ Ay, grovel, ob¬ 
scene beast, grovel!’ said Sir Nevil, ‘For, by God, I 
mean to end you here and now! ’ And I saw he had a 
small pistol in his fist. ‘Master,’ whined Yaxley, 
‘ don’t go for to murder me! ’ ‘ And why not, vermin? ’ 
smiled Sir Nevil, ‘I overheard your threats . . . and 
beside, you have ceased to be useful. ... You have 
failed too often! I’m done with you!’ And then. 


226 The Loring Mystery 

as Sir Nevil raised his arm, I cried out and ran in be¬ 
tween ’em. I don’t mind what I said, but I do re¬ 
member Sir Nevil waving me aside, scarcely troubling 
to glance at me, and pointing to the object Yaxley 
had dropped, a small, thin-bladed dagger with a silver 
handle. ‘Bring it to me. Beast!’ says he, and Yaxley, 
crawling on his knees, gave it to him. ‘Where did 
you get this very pretty thing?’ enquired Sir Nevil, 
turning it over in his hand. ‘ I found it in the wood, 
master.’ ‘ Aha! ’ says Sir Nevil, staring at the thing as 
if it pleased him, ‘Now heark’ee, my hrute. I’ll give 
you one more chance . . . succeed to-night! Fail 
again, and by Heaven I ’ll shoot you for the venomous 
thing you are! ’ Then he turned and hobbled off, and 
presently Yaxley crept away, too. . . . But, if ever 

Death glared out of a man’s eyes-! Ah, if I 

hadn’t intervened, Yaxley would assuredly be a corpse 

-' However! Though, mark me, young man, keep 

you a silent tongue! I’ve no desire to be dragged 
into the business or questioned in a coroner’s court, 
or any other — I’ve had my fill o’ courts! So mum ’s 
the word-” 

“Yes!” said David, “Yes! I shall say nothing! 
. . . And Sir Nevil . . . took the dagger with him?” 

“Ay, he did ... I’ve thought ’twould be queer if 
the weapon that let his evil life out should have been 
that same . . . ay, a very queer thing! However! . . . 
Oho! An elderly female signals us . . . beckons you, 
I think-” 






CHAPTER XXXIII 
Concerning a Ghost that Limped 

“How may I serve you, mam?” enquired David, 
bowing to the small, ancient lady who sat upon the 
grassy bank beside the way. 

“ Easily, sir! ” answered the Duchess, with an im¬ 
perious gesture. “ Sit you here beside me in this sanity 
o’ sunshine and listen to an insane question. ... So! 
You are comfortable? Warm with this grateful radi¬ 
ance? Listening — with both ears? Now then! Do 
you believe in ghosts, Mr. Hedges ? ” 

“ Ghosts, mam? ” 

“Yes! Ghosts, goblins, apparitions, spectres, phan¬ 
toms, visions, manifestations, the disembodied spirits 
o’ the dead ? ” 

“No, lady.” 

“No!” repeated the Duchess, “Of course not! 
Neither do I! At least — I thought I did not . . . 
and yet . . . mm! . . . What a truly beautiful morn¬ 
ing! What a glory of sun! Of course we don’t be¬ 
lieve in ghosts! But — were it black midnight . . . 
the ^witching hour’ again ... I wonder?” 

“Pray, madam, what do you mean?” 

“That in the black darkness of an ancient house 
fouled with recent crime one’s nerves may play one 
tricks — even mine.” 

“ Do I understand you have been frightened, mam? ” 

“Certainly not, sir! I have never feared anything 
all my life except cows and mice — the monsters! . . . 
I have been — thrilled, sir . . . yes, thrilled is the 
word.” 


228 The Loring Mystery 

“ By what, mam ? ” 

‘‘ Sounds, sir! Unaccountable noises in the dark 
. . . nocturnal footsteps! Footsteps very strangely 
reminiscent.” 

“How so, lady.?^” 

“ Well, did you ever hear tell of a ghost that — 
limped? ” 

“No . . . never, mam I ” 

“Of course you didn’t. And yet I heard one last 
night, sir — soft, stealthy feet . . . that limped! . . 

“ When, madam ? And where ? ” 

“ At midnight, and somewhere behind the panelling 
. . . And this sun so very sane and glorious! O, fiddle¬ 
sticks ! A scurry of rats in the wainscot. . . . And 
yet — dear me! When I recall it I am actually cold 
despite the sunshine, which is remarkable . . . and 
very ridiculous, to be sure. Though how any rats 
could make sounds so dreadfully like . . . feet . . . 
limping . . . O tush, sir . . . we don’t believe in 
ghosts — especially on such a radiant morning — do 
we? ” 

“No, lady!” answered David, and yet as he spoke 
he felt himself unpleasantly cold despite the warm sun. 

“il apropos of ghosts, sir,” continued the Duchess, 
loosening her bonnet-strings, “ Sir Nevil in his will has 
constituted me guardian to his young virago.” 

“ Meaning, mam ? ” 

“ His graceless protegee.’’ 

“I beg your ladyship’s pardon?” 

“I allude, sir, to that headstrong termagant, that 
detestable young shrew whom he labelled with the pa¬ 
gan name of Anticlea.” 

“ Your language is — is — unmeasured, lady.” 

‘^Llke herself, sir, she promises infinite capacities 
for evil-” 

“Or good, madam — like each one of us.” 

“Perhaps, sir. But as she is to-day-” 




A Ghost that Limped 229 

“To-day, madam, is but the result of many yester¬ 
days-thwarted, teased and tormented from her 

youth for the sport of a malevolent creature who made 
her childish furies his delight-” 

“ You are an eloquent advocate, sir, and one strangely 
well informed, I think.” 

“Nature gave me ears, mam-” 

“And eyes too, sir. And red hair may appeal to 
you-” 

“ Madam! ” exclaimed David, attempting to rise. 

“ Mr. Hedgerow! ” quoth the Duchess, holding him 
down, “I have you by the buttonhole, so pray sit still 
or you will quite dislocate my finger. Pray sit still 
and let us discuss Anticlea — she is a subject wakes 
you to eloquence ... a wild young creature so en¬ 
tirely impossible of management that I am quite deter¬ 
mined to manage her. ... I am resolved to tame her, 
to exorcise the devil in her and wake the woman, and, 
Mr. Hedges, you shall aid me! ” 

“ I, madam ” gasped David . . . “I.?’” 

“To the which end, I here and now appoint you 
bailiff to the estates of Loring at a salary to be agreed 
later.” 

“But . . . but—stammered David, “this . . . 
this is incredible, madam — unheard of-” 

“You hear now, sir, since Nature gave you ears!” 

“ And quite . . . impossible! ” 

“ I have found few things impossible hitherto, sir.” 

“But, lady, you — you know nothing about me . . . 
my capabilities . . . my worthiness-” 

“Tush, sir! Should you prove incompetent or a 
thief I can deal with you accordingly! So, then, con¬ 
sider the matter settled subject to our agreeing your 
remuneration, but this can wait. Now as to Sir Nevil’s 
will-” 

“I should tell your Grace that I happen to have 
heard something of it already.” 









230 The Loring Mystery 

“ Ho! ” exclaimed the Duchess. “ From whom, 
pray.?” 

“From Mr. Shrig of Bow Street, mam.” 

“Ha! An impertinent, prying person in top-boots. 
And he dared tell you of Sir NeviFs will.? ” 

“Feeling it his duty, mam, he showed me an ex¬ 
tract -” 

“Hum! That abominable part, I suppose: ‘In 
the hope that two felines may flesh their claws, each 
on each’ .? , . . How like Nevil! ... It is some con¬ 
solation to remember that I slapped him frequently 
in his youth, though not hard enough, of course! And 
yet . , . how well he knew the Sex! Men of his hate¬ 
ful character always do! . . . For instance, at break¬ 
fast this morning the dear child was itching to scratch 
me—^I mean Anticlea, sir.” 

“ To . . . O . . . to . . . scratch you, mam! ” 
gasped David. 

“With both hands, Mr. Fields. Had she so much 
as moved I should have wrenched her red hair down — 
instantly.” 

“ Heavens, madam! ” 

“ Hell, Mr. Brooks! ” corrected the Duchess. “ For 
what hell may justly compare with three solitary fe¬ 
males, who have slept badly, eating a breakfast they 
do not want, and striving to talk platitudinous polite¬ 
nesses when they are aching to scream — well, sir.?” 

“ Madam ... I — I do not apprehend.” 

“How old are you, Mr. Brooks.?” 

“ Twenty-four, mam.” 

“Knowledge will come, sir — with time. Hysteria 
is a very profound subject that dull man can under¬ 
stand only by a long, hard apprenticeship and painful 
application. You will be wiser in many ways in an¬ 
other — fifty years or so. As to Anticlea, she presents 
difficulties that my spirit rises to, ‘ sniffing the battle 
afar,’ as it were. She is just twenty and must remain 



A Ghost that Limped 231 

my ward until she is twenty-five. I look forward with 
keen anticipation, therefore, to five years of ceaseless 
strife, turmoil, stratagem and counter-plot. My 
strength is renewed within me, my youth returns . . . 
the combat is preparing, the field is set. . . . And 
there she is! . . . No, no — owl! Yonder — behind 
the hedge.” 

Glancing thither he saw Anticlea approaching, sure 
enough, as fresh and fair as the morning itself; she 
was walking slowly, her shapely head a-droop, like one 
lost in dreamy reverie. 

Quoth the Duchess: 

‘‘Ha, the sly minx has seen us and pretends she 
has n’t! Observe the unconscious grace of her, the 
languor of her walk! Now . . . that studied care¬ 
lessness of pose! See, being well aware that she has 
a passable profile she now turns it for our behoof . . • 
the baggage! ” 

“ Madam! ” exclaimed David, attempting to rise 
again. 

“ Mr. Meadows! ” quoth the Duchess, grasping his 
coat-tail, “ sit still and attend, for I perceive a skir¬ 
mish is imminent!” 


CHAPTER XXXIV 

In which Two Felines Flesh their Claws 

Duchess (calling in dulcet tones of tender affec¬ 
tion) : Anticlea, my love! (Anticlea starts and turns 
with so charmingly natural an air of surprise that 
David, rising to his feet, still fast grappled by the 
Duchess, immediately spurns that lady’s base insinua¬ 
tions.) 

Anticlea (in voice soft as cooing dove): La, dear 
madam, how you startled me! 

Duchess (beckoning her to approach): And you 
startle so very charmingly, my precious. . . . You are 
acquainted with my friend Mr. Hedges, I think 

Anticlea (seeming to notice David for the first 
time) : Hedges, dear madam.? 

Duchess: So he informs me. An excellent name for 
the country — so very much in keeping with things 
rural! But you know each other, of course.? 

Anticlea (appearing gently surprised) : O indeed, 
madam.? 

Duchess: So Mr. Hedges informs me. 

Anticlea: I think I have seen him before. 

(Here David bows profoundly.) 

Duchess (tugging slyly at David’s coat-tail): Then 
pray sit down . . . both of you. Indeed, you are 
such tall creatures it gives me a crick in the neck 
to look up at you. So be seated one on either side 
of me. 

David (a little stiffly) : Thank you, mam, but if you 
will pardon me- 



Two Felines and their Claws 233 

Duchess (tugging harder): Sir—sit! 

(David glances round with a helpless air and obeys.) 

Duchess (to Anticlea) : Now you, my sweet. 

Anticlea: Thank you, dear Duchess, but I prefer 
to stand. 

Duchess (eyeing her fondly): And indeed a charm¬ 
ing picture you make, my love . . . that so simple 
’tire moulding your beautiful — though robust—pro¬ 
portions! ... A very sylph, eh, Mr. Hedges? Yet no 
— sylphs are slimmer! A rustic nymph? Scarcely! 
Nymphs never wore stockings, of course — Your left 
one is inclined to wrinkle over the ankle, my dearest! 

Anticlea (flushed with sudden vexation) : O indeed, 
madam ? 

Duchess: And that pretty gown — fle! I must 
really get you a French maid, child. 

Anticlea (between shut teeth) : Pray what’s amiss 
with my gown, mam? 

Duchess: Dips alarmingly behind, dearest. 

(Anticlea subsides suddenly in a billow of muslin.) 

Anticlea (frowning) : I meant to ride my Brutus 
this morning but- 

Duchess (patting Anticlea’s hand affectionately): 
Knowing I disapprove of your mounting the wicked 
creature you came a-walking instead. Sweet, amiable 
child! Such dutiful submission touches me sensibly. 
Positively I must kiss you, love. (Anticlea hesitates, 
frowns, stoops suddenly and they peck each other on 
each cheek.) 

Anticlea (haughtily) : And now, dearest madam, 
perhaps you will inform me what has become of my 
saddle? 

Duchess : I told the groom to hide it, pet. 

Anticlea: Yes, madam! So I sent the coachman 
to buy me another. 

Duchess: Indeed, love, I expected you would, so I 
hid Brutus as well. 



234 The Loring Mystery 

Anticlea: Hid him, madam? 

Duchess: Or rather, I sent him away to one of my 
farms in Kent. 

Anticlea (amazed and angry): Sent my Brutus 
away? You- O, how dared you-! 

Duchess: Quite easily, child. 

Anticlea (rising to knees in sudden fury): He shall 
be brought back! . . . He shall, I say! 

Duchess (sweetly): So he shall, my love, after you 
are married. Until then I am responsible for your 
welfare and- 

Anticlea (fiercely determined) : I tell you again, 
madam, I ’ll not be married! 

Duchess : Certainly not, dearest, until I have 
selected you the proper mate. 

Anticlea (contemptuously): You, madam? You, 
indeed! Have I no say in the matter? 

Duchess: Why, of course, pet . . . you shall say 
whatever you like . . . afterwards. 

Anticlea (making to rise and go) : Afterwards, in¬ 
deed I I tell you I . . . I . . . you . . . O! 

Duchess: Meanwhile, my ’Clea, what do you say to 

Mr. Hedges- Pray sit still, sir! (Anticlea sits 

down again suddenly, to stare in amazement.) 

Anticlea (seeming to gasp): Mr. . . . Hedges? 

Duchess: I mean, of course, as the agent or bailiff 
to your estates, child. I was proposing the matter to 
him when you appeared. 

Anticlea (gazing curiously at David, who seems 
more uncomfortable than ever) : And what does Mr. 
. . . Hedges say? 

Duchess: Nothing beyond a stammering confession 
of his utter incapacity. fThe question is, what say 
you, my sweet? 

Anticlea: Have you made up your mind, madam? 

Duchess: I have. 

Anticlea: Then what say have I in the matter? 






Two Felines and their Claws 235 

Duchess: None at all, my love. But I should be 
happy to know you agreed in my decision. 

Anticlea : Then I suppose you have decided to offer 
him the position 

Duchess: No, child. I have decided he shall 
accept the position. Have you anything against 
this ? 

Anticlea: ’Twere no matter if I had, it seems. 

Duchess: None in the least, dear — except to prove 
you wrong. 

Anticlea (sullenly) : You have done that ever since 
you came. 

Duchess: How sweet of you to acknowledge this! 

David (flushed and self-conscious, making another 
attempt at escape) : Ladies, if you will excuse me . . . 
I think- 

Duchess (holding him firmly): Thinking needs no 
excuse, sir. . . . Have you anything to urge against 
Mr. Hedges’ appointment, my love.^^ 

Anticlea (wearily) : O, none at all, madam, your 
choice is mine. 

Duchess: Sweet, dutiful child! 

Anticlea: Since you leave me none- 

David (speaking with utmost determination and 
hence with accent more perceptible than usual) : Thank 
you for your offer, mam, but I beg to decline firmly, 
most firmly. I have never for one moment dreamed 
of accepting- 

Duchess: So then it is quite settled, you will begin 
your duties at once, Mr. Hedges. 

David: But, mam, you do not understand me- 

Duchess: Quite! 

David : I have no intention of- 

Duchess : David Hedgerow — fiddesticks ! I won’t 
permit David’s ridiculous pride to interfere with the 
prospects of Mr. Meadows! 

David (feebly) : But indeed, mam- 








236 The Lojing Mystery 

Duchess: Tush! I shall appoint Mr. Hedges to 
the position despite all the Davids in the world. 

Anticeea (petulantly) : And now, pray, what of my 
horse, madam? What of my Brutus? 

Duchess: I believe there are several good horses in 
the stable, and all at your service, my dear. 

Anticlea (angrily) : But I want Brutus ... I in¬ 
sist on his instant return. 

Duchess: Quite impossible, my love — unless I pro¬ 
ceed to marry you at once- 

Anticlea (furiously) : This is a physical impossi¬ 
bility, thank God. 

Duchess : — To some miserable male, my sweet. 

Anticlea (raging) : O madam, pray, madam, give 
me leave to assure you that I defy and detest you — 
and all your works. (Anticlea springs to her feet and 
hurries away tempestuous.) 

“Alas,” exclaimed Her Grace, watching Anticlea’s 
departure with smiling eyes, “ alas, my poor grand¬ 
nephew ! ” 

“ Who, mam ? ” enquired David. 

“ I allude to the Marquis of Jemingham, her spouse- 
to-be, sir. For years I have been marrying him, but 
at last . . . well . . . yonder goes his wife.” 

“ Not yet, mam I ” David demurred. 

“ A mere matter o’ time, sir I She will at least make 
a handsome marchioness. . . . And now, sir,” said the 
Duchess, rising nimbly, “ pray lend me your arm along 
the road. Mr. Maulverer will be awaiting us with the 
necessary papers and documents bearing on the busi¬ 
ness of the estate.” 

“But — but, madam-” stammered David. 

“ I told him to expect us about midday, sir.” 

“ As to which, mam, permit me to — to assure 
you-” 

“I am assured, sir — quite, I usually have been.” 

“ If you will suffer me to speak, mam-” 






Two Felines and their Claws 237 

“ Say on, Mr. Hedges.” 

“Then pray understand, mam, that I have no in¬ 
tention of accepting this-” 

“ I do, Mr. Hedges, I do. I am addressing myself 
to Mr. David. And having made up my mind to en¬ 
gage David, all the Hedges, Ditches, Fields and Meadows 
in the world shall not gainsay me . . . the thing is 
settled! And so, Mr. David, as the new Agent, 
Bailiff, Factor, and General Man o’ Business of the 
Loring Estates, come and get acquainted with your 
new duties — and Mr. Maulverer. You have met him, 
perhaps ? ” 

“Yes, mam. But-” 

“And what do you think of him?” 

David sighed, laughed and capitulated. 

“ Mr. Maulverer is surely a very — estimable gentle¬ 
man, lady.” 

“And pray why don’t you like him?” enquired the 
Duchess, glancing at David with her shrewd, youthful- 
seeming eyes. 

“Why, mam . . . you . . . indeed, you are mis¬ 
taken. My feelings for the gentleman are purely 
negative.” 

“So bad as that, sir? Mm I I’ll grant you he is 
a little . . . difficult, perhaps, which is owing to his 
prideful poverty and therefore to be overlooked. Per¬ 
sonally, I know him for an admirable youth ... he 
can be very little older than you, Mr. David . . . 
and of unexceptional birth and breeding. I would 
have you his friend if possible, for he is also a lonely 
youth — pride, poverty and loneliness are usually close 
companions. . . . And then to be sure he hated Sir 
Nevil — very wholesomely I ” 

“Indeed, mam?” 

“Of course — though with more cause than the ma¬ 
jority of folk. Our poor Maulverer suffers by reason 
of a fatuous father who had the bad taste to choose 





238 The Loring Mystery 

Nevil Loring for a friend, the worse judgment to 
quarrel with him, and the suicidal madness to go to 
law. Naturally enough Nevil ruined him . . . Nevil 
loved to torture flies and other small creatures as a 
boy; when he grew up the passion intensified and the 
animals were — larger! . . . Murder may seem scarcely 
a sin . . . sometimes! You agree, sir?” 

Yes 1 ” said David, scowling fiercely. ‘‘ Yes 1 ” 

Dear me I ” exclaimed the Duchess, clasping his 
arm a little tighter, “I believe we are both potential 
murderers.” 

‘‘ Who is not, mam, if danger or a ... a vile evil 
threaten ? ” 

“ Mm 1 ” quoth Her Grace, with another keen glance. 
“ So the Maulverers were ruined and Eustace is a 
beggar. ... I knew his mother intimately, a sweet, 
languishing creature who swooned to Fortune’s rude 
bulfets with a constancy nothing could shake, and be¬ 
fore which even pipe-puffing, beetle-browed bailiffs’ 
men have quailed apologetic. . . . And yonder comes 
the Bow Street person — in a gig! Pray waft him to 
stop.” 

Obedient to David’s gesture, Mr. Shrig pulled up the 
fast-trotting horse he drove, and removing his shaggy- 
napped hat flourished it in cheery, though respectful 
salutation. 

Good morning. Your Grace, an’ glad I am to be’old 
you so werry blooming, mam —ay, blooming’s the 
vord! Yourself likevise, Mr. ’Edges!” 

The Duchess met Mr. Shrig’s placid benignity with 
a sudden smile. 

“You have advertised for the man Thomas Yaxley?” 
she enquired. 

“Vich, mam, I ’ave, you may tak’ your oath on that 
if so inclined — ’axing your parding. The bills and 
placards, mam, should be all ready this here werry 
arternoon.” 


Two Felines and their Claws 239 

“You have no news of the wretch, I suppose, 
officer ? ” 

“Not vot you might eggsackly call ‘noos’. Your 
Grace, mam. Though things is beginning to look up, 
things is reasonable spry, mam. Gimme a few more 
days and I ’opes to clap my mauleys or — as you 
might say — daddies, mam, on the guilty party. Roses 
don’t bloom in a day, mam, nor butter come immediate 
from the cow. I ain’t never been beat yet. Your Grace, 
except by Death, mam. Death ’as diddled me now 
an’ then — snatched my Capital Bird out o’ my werry 
fingers or—^as you might say — ’ooks, my lady, an’ 
left me only a corp’ for my pains, vich is ’eart-breaking 
to a man as takes a pride in ’is perfession. But 
Death’s a tough customer ’owever you tackles ’im, and 
no error! Ay, Death’s robbed me afore now . . . 
that ’ere ‘ Gaunt ’ murder, two year ago . . . Jarsper 
Gaunt, you’ll mind the case, I think, mam.^^” 

“To be sure I do!” nodded the Duchess, “You 
mean that villainous money lender who had ruined so 
many. . . . The case was very similar to this, Mr. 
Shrig, a knife-blow — struck at random-” 

“ But murder, mam, random or no! ” demurred Mr. 
Shrig. “ The Capital Act, my lady! And — struck 
by ’ 00 , or ’ow — to be proceeded against according, in 
doo form and as dooty bids, mam. For the law, lady, 
is the law and-” 

“Has been called an ass!” the Duchess added. 

“A nass, mam, a nass?” repeated Mr. Shrig, 
placidly reproachful. “Vich all I says is, let them as 
so calls remember a nass ’as oncommon long ears and 
beware according.” 

“ Then perhaps the law’s great ears have heard 
something about a ghost ? ” 

“A ghost, mam.^” Mr. Shrig seemed to ponder the 
question. 

^‘Yourself, man,” exclaimed the Duchess, “have 




240 The Loring Mystery 

you heard anything? At least do you believe iu 
ghosts ?” 

‘‘ Why no, mam, no — leastways only them as ’appens 
to— limp! ” 

“ Ah — so you have heard of it, then ? ” 

“Information, lady, ’as been laid agin’ a limpin’ 
ghost, specketer or apparation by Old dole, surname 
Bybrook — though to be sure he’s a werry ancient 
article and inclined to be vot they calls, in these parts, 
‘doddlish.’ ” 

“Well, am I ‘doddlish,’ Mr. Shrig?” demanded the 
Duchess, with a flash of her quick, bright eyes and jut 
of indomitable chin, Mr. Shrig’s answer was instant 
and sufficiently decisive. 

“Not by no manner o’ means you ain’t, mam!” 

“ Then I will lay another information against this 
limping ghost, for I have heard it! ” 

“ Heard it? ” repeated Mr. Shrig, his eyes growing 
suddenly round. “ O indeed, mam I Wheerabouts, 
now — and v’en?” 

“ Last night about midnight — in the house at 
Loring Chase.” 

“’Ave ye so, my lady, ’ave ye so?” exclaimed Mr. 
Shrig, staring very hard at nothing in particular. 
“ And limped, did it, mam, like him as now — ain’t ? ” 

“ Precisely I ” nodded the Duchess. 

“ Lady,” sighed Mr. Shrig, “ I should like to ’ark to 
that their apparition.” 

“ So you shall, perhaps, one of these fine nights,” 
answered the Duchess, suddenly thoughtful. “ Limping 
ghosts are rare, I fancy ? ” 

“ And rum, mam, re-markable rum! ” nodded Mr. 
Shrig. 

“Well, good morning, Officer, and Fortune attend 
you.” 

“ It’s attendin’, mam! ” nodded Mr. Shrig, gather¬ 
ing up the reins. “Fortun’ or — as you might say — 


Two Felines and their Claws 241 

Luck is a-sittin’ along wi’ me at this here werry 
minute! . . . Good morning, your Grace and sir — 
good morning! ” 

And as Mr. Shrig drove on his way David heard him 
whistling cheerily. 

Quoth the Duchess as they walked on again: 

“You and I, sir, as potential homicides, should 
naturally be curious as to the actual criminal. . . . 
Now, who do you suppose perpetrated this so ex¬ 
tremely human deed.^^ Who was the author of Nevil’s 
sudden end?” 

David sighed and, averting his eyes, shook his head. 
“Yaxley is the most apparently so. ... You agree, 
sir?” 

“ Yes, mam.” 

“ Though Maulverer is perhaps the more probable. 
. . . Agreed, sir? ” 

“Why — why, mam,” stammered David, “I can¬ 
not in honour say anything to the disparagement of 

_J5 

“Tush, sir! Now, speaking as a possible murderess 
myself, I should say the most likely of all is . . . 
Wherefore must you blench and tremble, sir?” 

“ Who, mam — who ? ” 

“ Why such anxiety-? ” 

“ O, madam, pray what do you know? How much 
do you guess ? . . . Whom do you mean ? ” 

“ Mm! ” said the Duchess thoughtfully. . . . “ Here 
we are at Loring already! Come this way, sir, Mr. 
Maulverer’s work-room is at the back.” 




CHAPTER XXXV 

The Duchess Dreams of the Might-have-been 

“May I remark, madam,” said Mr. Maulverer,^ as 
austere and politely impassive as usual, “ that such im¬ 
provements as your Grace suggests will entail the dis¬ 
bursement of a considerable sum of money-” 

“ Neglect,” retorted the Duchess, “ neglect is always 
expensive sooner or later, Maulverer! ” 

“Very true, your Grace. . . . But I fear Mr. 
Hedges’ responsibilities will be heavy.” 

“Well, his shoulders are wide enough, Maulverer, 
and you will, of course, afford him every assistance.” 

“Your Grace may rest assured!” murmured the 
secretary, with a stately inclination of his head. 

“ Mm 1 ” quoth the Duchess. “ You Maulverers were 
never enthusiasts, I remember. . , . And your years, 
now.^ Let me see — you are, I think, twenty-six and 
an odd month or so.?^ ” 

“Your ladyship’s memory is truly extraordinary!” 

“ Twenty-six is not a great age, Eustace Maulverer, 
and yet no Maulverer was ever young. , . . Still, I 
hope that you and Mr. Hedges may become friends.” 

The young secretary bowed. 

“Your Grace’s interest is most gratifying!” he 
murmured. 

“I am interested in most things, thank Heaven!” 
quoth the Duchess. “And this reminds me — Maul¬ 
verer, were you disturbed in any way last night ? ” 

“ In . . . what manner, your Grace ” he enquired, 
after a momentary pause. 



The Duchess Dreams 243 

“By footsteps — behind the panelling, I fancy. 
Halting feet . . . horribly suggestive.” 

Mr. Maulverer was fidgeting with the quill he held; 
and now David saw his eyelids quiver ere he glanced 
up. 

‘‘ Suggestive, madam.?*” he enquired. 

‘‘Hatefully! They sounded very like Sir NeviPs 
limp.” 

“You . . . amaze me, madam.” 

■ “ Do I indeed, Eustace.? Then you heard nothing? ” 

The pen escaped Mr. Maulverer’s fingers and fell, 
staining the sheet of paper before him with an ugly 
blot. 

“ Nothing, your Grace,” he answered, in the same 
repressed tone. 

“ And your chamber is next to mine, I think, 
Eustace?” 

“ I believe it is, madam.” 

“And you heard nothing, you say? ” 

“Nothing, madam.” 

“You sleep well, Maulverer?” 

“ Thank you, exceedingly well, madam.” 

“ Then you must be a somnambulist.” 

Mr. Maulverer started slightly and glanced up 
beneath slowly wrinkling brows. 

“ Pray what,” he enquired, fidgeting with the quill 
again, “what should cause your Grace to think so?” 

“My ears, sir! For just after the unpleasant 
sounds had died away I distinctly heard the scrape of 
a chair in your room and, a moment after, the creak of 
your casement opening.” 

The pen broke suddenly in Mr. Maulverer’s delicate 
fingers and he stared down at it with eyes strangely 
troubled. 

“None the less, madam,” he answered, after a some¬ 
what awkward silence, “I can only re-asseverate what 
I have already said.” 


244 The Loring Mystery 

“ Mm! ” sighed the Duchess thoughtfully. “ Should 
these weird sounds make themselves heard again, Maul- 
verer, I will rap on the wall with my shoe . . . Mr. 
Hedges, have you selected what papers you require? 
Very well ... I think I once promised to show you 
a picture; come with me and you shall see it.” Mr. 
Maulverer ushered them to the door with a profound 
obeisance, but as David bowed in return he saw Mr. 
Maulverer’s right hand was clenched and quivering. 

Her Grace muttered something anent “ oil and 
water”, and thereafter said no more until, having de¬ 
scended certain stairs and traversed sundry corridors, 
she led him into a long gallery whose many windows 
lighted row upon row of portraits. 

“ These,” said she, “ are all pictures of Lorings who, 
when they were not more than ordinarily stupid, were 
either surprisingly clever or amazingly wicked. . . . 
They begin here with this one named Humphrey — 
they are all Humphreys or Nevils or Davids — this 
unpleasant-looking person in a beard and breast-plate 
— painted in . . . yes . . . fourteen hundred and 
seventy.” 

So David stood to peer up at these his pictured 
ancestors; ladies in hennin, in ruff and farthingale, 
men moustachioed, in armour or doublet and hose; 
bewigged and ruffled gallants, fair dames with gowns 
cut high or perilously low, who smiled, ogled or lan¬ 
guished according to the then prevailing mode. Last 
of all the Duchess brought him to a certain canvas 
whence a young exquisite in blue and silver, beruffled 
hand poised gracefully upon silver hilt, smiled down 
at them beneath powdered toupet; of face comely and 
debonair, keen-eyed, firm-lipped, delicately aquiline, a 
face, indeed, which might have been David’s own but 
for its laughing deviltry. 

“ This,” said the Duchess, glancing from the picture 
to David and back again, “ this was Sir David Loring, 


The Duchess Dreams 245 

father to Humphrey who was too angelic and Nevil 
who was altogether diabolic! . . . Yes, this was David 
— him they called the ‘Wild Loring’ . . . Poor 
David! I remember that blue coat. ... I remember 
him smiling down at me just so, many and many a 
time when I was ringletted seventeen instead of be- 
wigged seventy. ... So long and long ago 1 The 
world was very different then! Dear Heaven, how the 
years do speed away, to be sure! We are hardly alive 
before it is time to die . . . O, well — I shall be ready, 
quite, quite ready . . . O, tush and a fiddlestick! 
Here stands a foolish old woman dreaming o’ the 
might-have-been and babbling o’ the lonely yesterdays 
. . . ! Away sir — begone. Youth, to your duties and 
pleasures — be off, Mr. David, and leave Age to its 
empty dreams.” 

David bowed and then, acting on warm and sudden 
impulse, caught that so small, mittened hand to his lips 
and kissed it reverently. 

For a moment Her Grace of Camberhurst stood 
looking up at him with eyes even brighter than usual: 

“ Why, David Hedges! ” she exclaimed at last, “ O 
David, I vow thou ’rt more like . . . even than I 
dreamed.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI 
Telleth of a Transformation 

Mr. Sprowles, meditating sleepily in a rickety chair 
before his weatherworn cottage, glanced up drowsily 
at sound of horse-hoofs; but beholding the external 
changes a week had wrought in the approaching eques¬ 
trian: as — modish hat, neat-fitting coat and buck¬ 
skins and immaculate boots, Mr. Sprowles instantly 
perceived therein so much of “ THE QUALITY ” that 
he arose forthwith and ambled to his crazy garden- 
gate the better to salute their wearer. 

“ Good afternoon! ” said David, reining in the 
mettled animal he bestrode. 

“ Thank’ee, sir,” answered Mr. Sprowles, doffing his 
hat to David’s nearest boot, “ I ’umbly wishes your 
honour the same indenticle.” 

“You are the beadle, I think?” 

“Which, sir, I be! Name o’ Sprowles, sir, at your 
service I ” 

“ Can you tell me why the villagers avoid me ? ” 

“ Well, sir, the folk in these here parts, being mostly 
ignorammusses, don’t take kindly to innoviations nor 
yet to novelteers, d’ye see . . . and you, sir, axing 
your parding, are a novelteer and objected to 
according.” 

“How so?” 

“Well, sir, you’re the noo bailiff, ain’t you? Well, 
the folk hereabout can’t nowise abide change no’ow. 
Ye see. Squire Loring never ’ad no bailiff, stooard, nor 
yet a-gent- 



A Transformation 247 

‘^And consequently, Mr. Sprowles, the whole prop¬ 
erty is in a very deplorable condition.” 

“ Could n’t nowise be no deplorabler, sir! But then 
the folk hereabouts, being used to such conditions, 
don’t ax for nor yet look for nothing better — sich 
being beyond their ’umble expectorations! ” 

“ O ! ” said David. Indeed.? ” 

“ Ah! ” modded the Beadle. ‘‘ And as sayeth ’Oly 
Writ: ‘Blessed is ’e as expectorateth little!’ . . . 
Take my cottage f’r instance.” 

“Needs a coat of whitewash!” said David. 

“And a noo roof, sir!” 

“ Ha — leaks, does it ? ” 

“ Like a sieve, sir. Likewise the walls is cracked 
’ere and theer, the chimbley smokes crool and the 
stairs ain’t safe, otherwise I ain’t got no fault to find, 
for if ’twere good enough for me in Squire Nevil’s 
time, ’tis good enough now-” 

“Nonsense!” said David, surveying the structure 
in question, “ Miss Anticlea is determined such evil 
shall be remedied, and it is my duty to see it done 
. . . though indeed the cottagers themselves seem un¬ 
willing to be made comfortable . . . though Heaven 
alone knows why.” 

“No, sir, here’s me as knows likewise!” quoth Mr. 
Sprowles, with portentous nod. “Ye see, sir, though 
Miss Anticleer be uncommon charitable, she be only 
a fee-male arter all! On the other ’and. Sir Nevil were 
a very fine gentleman, all ‘ Quality ’ from ’ead to fut, 
and consequently never bothered ’is ’ead about none 
of ’is tenants no’ow and they respected him accord¬ 
ing, sich bein’ their natur’, and they thinks what was 
good enough for ’em when Squire were alive be good 
enough for ’em now ’e be dead an’ gone. And seeing 
as ’e be dead — massacreed by a sanguinarious ’and, 
the folks ’ereabouts do think pore Squire’s most ow- 
dacious murderer should be took — prompt, and ’ung 



248 The Loring Mystery 

an’ gibbeted at the four-wents yonder, be the crimin- 
alious party man or maid . . . ’specially as Squire’s 

’aant do ha’ took to walking o’ nights-” 

Ha! walking! ” exclaimed David, starting. “ What 
do you mean ? ” 

“ I means Squire’s appeariation, his spectator, sir. 
Old Joel do ha’ seed it a flutterin’ in the churchyard. 
Ah, an’ William’s seed it, tu — leastways ’e says so.” 

“ Have you seen it ? ” enquired David. 

“Why, no, sir, I ain’t, nor don’t want . . . and 
nobody else ain’t nor likely tu, seeing as nobody don’t 
stir out arter dark now . . . except Old Jole, and 
bein’ so aged ’e can’t come to no ’arm, being a bit 
cracked-like on ghostes, d’ye see.” 

“ Ay, to be sure — to be sure! ” said David; and 
bidding Mr. Sprowls “ good afternoon,” he cantered 
on his way. 

Birds twittered in tree and hedgerow, larks mounted 
heavenward upon the fragrant, sunny air, carolling 
blithely; and David, conscious of it all, felt a new joy 
of life wherein sun and bird-song, his own vigorous 
youth, the noble animal beneath him and his new 
clothes, each and all had their share. Thus as he rode, 
reins and whip in one gloved hand, chin well up, eyes 
wide and bright, buckled hat slightly a-cock, what 
wonder if David sang also, albeit softly and beneath 
his breath. 

Presently he came where the road cut in between 
high green banks with wild flowers a-bloom in pretty 
riot. A touch of the spur and his mettled animal broke 
into a long, easy gallop; but suddenly, above the 
rhythmic beat of these galloping hoofs rose a piercing 
cry ... a voice there was no mistaking: 

“Help, sir —help!” 

David reined up so suddenly that his horse reared 
. . . for he had glimpsed a pale face looking down 
at him from the hedge crowning the bank above. 



A Transformation 249 

“David!” cried the voice, “0 David, is it you? 
Thank God!” 

David was off his horse, up the bank and through 
the hedge, all in a moment, to behold a woman who 
crouched, panting, beneath the hedge, while before this 
woman, pale but defiant, stood Anticlea face to face 
with a burly, gipsy-seeming fellow, an evil-looking 
ruffian from dusty boots to battered hat, who now 
beholding David, flourished the cudgel he bore and 
broke into foul speech: 

“ so stand off an’ gimme my mort! ” he ended. 

“I don’t know him!” panted the woman distress¬ 
fully, “ 0, believe me, sir . . . ’t is my bit o’ money 
’e be after . , , nigh ’ad it once, ’e did, but I got away 
from ’im and run till I dropped, then . . .” 

“ She screamed and I heard her,” said Anticlea, “ so 
I ran to help her, of course. But this man is so vile 
. . . a dangerous beast, and I-” 

David leapt, wasting no words. . . . The man was 
powerful and his bludgeon heavy, but David was lithe 
and very quick , . . whip parried bludgeon and smote 
in turn full and true upon the crown of the weather¬ 
beaten hat; but, staggering, the man smote again, a 
wild blow that none the less sent David’s new headgear 
flying and beat him to his knees, whereat the fellow 
roared in fierce exultation and, steadying himself, 
sprang in with murderous weapon aloft; but, rising 
swiftly, David eluded the stroke and, being in range, 
stopped the fellow’s rush with a blow of unerring fist 
and staggered him anew with heavy whip. Cursing 
savagely, the man tripped and all but fell, dropping 
his bludgeon; whereupon David laughed, tossed away 
his whip and, dashing the blood from his eyes, went 
after his man with eager fists. But the fellow proved 
no novice at the game either, so for a time was fierce 
conflict, vicious and desperate, watched by two pale- 
faced women. Time and again the man endeavoured 



250 The Loring Mystery 

to close, but David either eluded his dangerous rushes 
or smote him away with lightning blows, watching and 
waiting for the inevitable opening: suddenly it came, 
and out flashed David’s right with all the weight of 
arm and shoulder and body behind it, and, throwing 
up his arms, the man fell and lay, kicking feebly. 
Leaping where lay his whip, David caught it up and, 
freeing the lash, turned upon his prostrate antagonist; 
but before he could strike Anticlea interposed: 

“You have given him enough!” she cried. 

“Not . . . not half ... he deserves-” panted 

David. 

“ Let him go . . . pray let him go . . . David — I 
beg! ” she pleaded. 

The cowed and battered wretch, glad to escape, 
hastened to get upon unsteady legs and made off with¬ 
out another word, or so much as staying to recover 
his bludgeon. Then, coming to his tumbled hat, 
David picked it up tenderly and viewed its dented brim 
and ruffled nap with such rueful eyes that Anticlea 
laughed, though a little shakily: 

“Your new hat!” said she softly. 

“ Indeed,” sighed David, “ I seem somewhat un¬ 
fortunate with hats!” Now glancing at Anticlea, he 
beheld in her eyes a light he had never noticed before, 
and heard in her voice a new gentleness. 

“You are hurt!” 

“No, indeed!” he answered, and wondered to see 
her trembling. “ But the brute frightened you! ” 

“ No, indeed! ” she mimicked, but in the same soft 
new voice. 

“ But see how your hands shake! ” 

“ That is not fear.” 

“ And your cheeks so pale! ” 

“ And your cheek bleeing! ” 

“ ’T is nothing to matter, child.” 

“ Let me see! Sit you here — against this tree! ” 



251 


A Transformation 

“Pray do not trouble-” 

“ I insist! ” 

“ Yes, mam! ” And David sat obediently. 

“Now turn your head. . . . Yes, it might be worse, 
your hat saved you! But your head is cut and must 
be bathed! There is a brook over yonder—come!” 

So David rose, but chancing to espy the woman who 
yet crouched beneath the hedge, stood gazing down 
at her while she looked as earnestly up at him; a 
woman not old, whose face, once beautiful, was pinched 
and lined by hardship and sorrow. 

“Surely we have met before . . . somewhere?” he 
asked in his gentle way. 

“Yes, sir,” she answered, “I mind you by your 
voice and way o’ speech ... we met one morning on 
London Bridge.” 

“Why, then, you are Nancy Martin, I guess? You 
are Ben Bowker’s ‘ little Nan ’ ? ” 

At this she bowed her head, hiding her face in work- 
roughened fingers. 

“ My poor Ben! ” she sobbed, “ My poor Ben! ” 
Lifting her head suddenly she looked up through her 
tears, “But how do ye know o’ this, sir?” she ques¬ 
tioned eagerly. “Ha’ ye seen my Ben — ha’ ye seen 
him? D’you know him, sir?” 

“He lent me two guineas!” answered David. “And 
I know he lives only to find you. He is away to Lon¬ 
don seeking you-” 

“London!” she cried bitterly, “ O, London! We 
must ha’ passed each other on the road. ... I only got 
to Lewes yesterday and heard he was here and came 
looking for him . . . and now . . . O — London!” 

“Never grieve, child!” said David, touching her 
bowed shoulder kindly. “ He shall be found, I promise 
you. So go back to your mother, be patient a little 
longer, for Happiness is coming to you at last, I 
guess! ” 




252 The Loring Mystery 

“O, God bless you, sir!” cried Nancy, drying her 
tears, “and you too, lady, you as took my part so 
brave ... ! ” Here she caught Anticlea’s hand and 
would have kissed it; but moved by that same new 
spirit of gentleness, Anticlea stooped and took the 
poor wanderer to her bosom. 

“Do you . . . love . . . your Ben?” she ques¬ 
tioned softly. 

“All my days, lady — though I bean’t worthy of 
him. . . . And I only lost him because . . . O lady, 
I be years older nor you and bitter suffering has 
learned me a many things! O, lady so young and 
beautiful ... if you do love a man as be good an’ 
true, never fear to show your love . . . for love as be 
real be above all things in this world! . . . And you, 
sir, you as can fight so fierce and be so gentle . . . 
don’t be too late — don’t be too long about telling! ” 

“Pray what must I tell? ” enquired our dense David. 

“ Love, sir! The love as do be a-peeping out o’ your 
eyes, a-singing in your heart.” 

David dropped his hat and, stooping to recover it, 
grew surprisingly red in the face. 

“ O, sir and mam!” said Nancy Martin, rising from 
her knees, “I be a woman has suffered and brought 
bitter sorrow on a good man! If only I had been a 
bit kinder to him years ago ... if only I had listened 
to good ’stead of evil ... if only Ben had spoke a 
bit sooner. . . . And the river nigh got me! So, sir 
an’ madam, never fear love — ’t is the best of all! For 
your kindness to a sorrowful, lonesome woman, God 
bless ye both and—^bring ye to happiness!” 

So Nancy Martin, worn by suffering but wise at last 
by sorrow, turned and went her solitary way, leaving 
David staring after her in blank amaze, and Anticlea 
to stare at him with the same new glory in her eyes. 

“ Now God bless my soul! ” said David. 

“ And mine also! ” sighed Anticlea. 


CHAPTER XXXVII 

CONCEENING THE PeETINENCE OF A BeOOK 

Now, when Nancy Martin had trudged out of sight, 
Anticlea reached David her hand. 

“ Come,” said she, “ come to the brook and have 
your hurt bathed! ” 

“ But pray believe me, mam,” he answered, finding 
himself strangely diffident, “ my head is-” 

“ Sir,” said she, “ once on a time you splashed me 
with water — outrageously, and now it is my turn. 
Come!” 

“But . . . the horse?” 

“Back to Loring, to be sure!” she nodded. “You 
were riding ‘ The Marquis ’, and he never stands . . . 
he is back in his stable long ago — at least he is gone, 
as you may see for yourself.” And, indeed, peering 
down into the road, David perceived the animal was 
utterly vanished; wherefore he turned with Anticlea, 
and side by side they came where a merry brook leaped 
and laughed and chuckled amid mossy stones. Here, 
side by side, they knelt together while she tended the 
cut above his ear with hands he thought surprisingly 
soft and gentle; she laughing, a little unsteadily, when 
he complained of water down his neck. 

And side by side, her ministrations done, they sat 
beside this blithesome rill, listening to its pretty ^babble 
and therefore saying very little themselves, she sitting 
chin on hand gazing down at these sparkling waters, 
and he turning now and then to steal a glance at her; 
noting, as he had never done ere this, all those many 
attributes which together made her individual: the 



254 The Loring Mystery 

dark, low-arched brows; the long-lashed eyes; the nose 
that, being neither arched nor straight, was exactly 
right; the vivid, full-lipped mouth; the resolute chin; 
the full, round throat; the graceful pose of rounded 
limbs and shapely body; and found in each an ever¬ 
growing joy. And be sure Anticlea contrived to see 
much beside the rippling brook; as, for instance: 

The gentle eyes so much at odds with his darkly 
aquiline features; the dark, thick-curling hair; the 
bold, high carriage of his head; the lithe and slender 
form so much stronger than it seemed; the slim, long¬ 
fingered hands; all this she viewed frequently, yet 
whenever he chanced to look up her gaze was upon 
the brook, of course . . . this brook that gurgled and 
whispered and chuckled in manner so extremely fa¬ 
miliar and knowing, and w^hich, finding them both thus 
speechless, seemed to gurgle and whisper and chuckle 
louder than ever, while David watched Anticlea thus, 
furtively, and she, him. 

At last, wishful to hear his voice whose soft drawl 
and quaint diction were so peculiarly characteristic of 
him and so new in her experience, she spoke that he 
might speak: 

“So you knew that poor woman?” 

“I met her once, lady.” And forthwith he re¬ 
counted the incident. “And indeed ’twas noble of 
you to protect her! ” he ended. “ It was vastly brave 
and very like you to defy that evil ruffian, lady.” 

“But it was grand of you to knock him down . . . 
Mr. Hedges! ” 

“ Please don’t address me . . . so! ” he pleaded. 

“ Then pray don’t call me ‘ lady ’ ! ” she admonished. 

“Very well, mam.” 

“Nor ‘mam’!” 

“You called me ‘David’ a while ago,” he suggested. 

“I know I did!” said Anticlea, and frowned at the 
brook, whereupon David frowned at it also; and thus 


A Brook’s Pertinence 255 

was silence again, though, to be sure, the stream 
prattled more knowingly than ever. 

“Poor Nancy Martin!” said David suddenly. “She 
. . . talked a little wildly . . . don’t you think ? ” 

“ About —what.?” 

Here David hesitated and the brook chuckled. 

“ Love 1 ” said he, with an effort. 

“ I remember,” said Anticlea softly. 

“Do you think she . . . was right.?” he enquired 
a little anxiously. 

“Well . . . it all depends I ” she answered. 

“ Yes ... I suppose it does I ” he admitted some¬ 
what ruefully. 

And here the brook laughed outright. 

“ The Duchess,” said David at last. “ Her Grace is 

surely a wonderful lady-” 

“ Yes,” nodded Anticlea, “ she threw her wig at me 
this morning 1 ” 

“Wig.?” repeated David, in shocked amazement. 
“ How . . . how undignified I ” 

“ Exactly what I told her.” 

“ But why did she commit such a-” 

“ Because I refused to marry a marquis.” 

“ Ha I ” exclaimed David, scowling fiercely. “ Very 
right of you — extremely right and proper! ” 

“Her wig fiew out of her reach on the top of a 
book-case, so I got it down for her, the small, hateful 

wretch, and then-” 

“Well.?” 

“I had to kiss her.” 

“Who.?” 

“ The ‘ hateful wretch,’ of course! ” 
“Extraordinary!” murmured our perplexed David. 
“Pray why were you forced to kiss her.?” 

“ Just because, though a wretch, she looked such a 
small, dear thing without her great wig . . . her own 
hair is all silky curls snowy white. ... So I kissed 





256 The Loring Mystery 

her, and out of her eyes — they are beautiful eyes — 
rolled two big tears! Then she called me a baggage 
and a minx, and other things, and put on her wig any¬ 
how and kissed me back — quite unexpectedly. . . . 
Indeed, she is making it very hard for me to detest her 
properly I ” 

“ But why . . . why must you detest her? ” 
“Because she expects implicit obedience and, what 
is much worse, demands it!” 

“ But one must obey one’s elders, child-” 

“ O, and must one, sir! Lord, but you talk like a 
bearded ancestor or a child’s copy-book!” 

Here David flushed, folded his arms and scowled 
down haughtily at the brook, . . . And after some 
while Anticlea spoke again in accents softer, sweeter 
than ever: 

“You see, David, my detestable wretch is taking me 

to London next week-” 

“London?” exclaimed David, his haughtiness for¬ 
gotten all in a moment. “What in the world for? Do 
you wish to go ? ” 

“I did!” she murmured. 

“Ay, but . . . do you?” 

“ She will take me all the same! ” 

“ Why, then,” said David, unfolding his arms, “ I 
must kiss you to-day . . . now!” 

“Must you?” murmured Anticlea, gazing down into 
the brook. 

“Yes!” he answered. “ If ... if you . . . don’t 
mind?” he ended, becoming suddenly diffident. 

“What would that matter?” she questioned softly. 
“Nothing at all!” he answered. “For truly, An¬ 
ticlea, you see ... I have just been yearning to kiss 
you . . . ever since we met!” 

“ Then, David . . . why don’t you ? ” 

Almost as she spoke he had her in his arms; and 
lying thus above his heart she looked up at him with 




A Brook’s Pertinence 257 

the glory in her eyes and spoke in that new voice so 
strangely soft and caressing: 

“But O, David . . . David — my red hair?” 

“Yes?” said he, and kissed it. 

“ But you told me you did n’t like red hair.” 

“ I don’t,” said he, “ I love it! ” 

“And me too, David ... all of me?” 

“Yes!” he answered, “Yes — all of you.” 

“ But you never seemed to care for me.” 

“ I did n’t know I did — until to-day.” 

“ And now, David? ” 

“ Now,” said he, and would have kissed her, but she 
held him away. 

“David?” she questioned, “Dear? . . . What did 
you do with my dagger? ” 

Now, at this he started and his arms relaxed their 
hold a little. 

“ I hid it! ” he answered. 

“ Why did you hide it ? . . . And don’t turn your 
head away or loose me just yet, David, because . . . 
I know the reason! You thought . . . ah, no — you 
think’t was I killed-” 

“ Hush! ” he whispered, “ O, hush! ” 

“ But you do, David, you do! ” 

“ Then tell me, O Anticlea . . . tell me you did n’t! ” 
he pleaded, holding her closer than ever. “Look into 
my eyes, dear love, and tell me you did n’t-” 

“ O David! ” she sighed. “ Surely ’t is strangely 
wonderful that you can look at a murderess with love 
in your eyes, and that I can lie in the arms of a 
murderer and joy to be there. For, David, if you 
suspected me ... as you did ... I suspected you 

_55 

“Why, then,” said David, “O, thank God — you 
mean . . .” 

“ That I love you, David, for loving me in spite of 
your suspicions. O, indeed, for this I am your very 





258 The Loring Mystery 

grateful woman and shall be — all my days! Hush — 
ask me no questions . . . ! But, David dear, although 
I shall never lie so in your arms again until you shall 
be as sure of me as I am of you, yet, because you loved 
me in spite of all . . . why, David — kiss me! ” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 
Telleth how David Heard the Ghost 

Through countless ages this old sun of ours has 
been rising and setting in more or less splendour every 
day of the year; this evening it set as usual and made 
but a very ordinary business of it. And yet David, 
leaning upon the old stile where he had just parted 
from Ant idea, stood gazing in rapt and silent awe 
upon the western sky, for he knew within himself that 
never had there been so glorious a sunset nor ever could 
be — for him, at least. 

And then, this stile! A warped and weather-beaten 
monstrosity of a stile it was in very fact, and yet in his 
eyes a very holy thing, since there her foot had been, 
here her hand had rested, this knotted timber had been 
blessed by the touch of her garments! . . . And holy 
things are to be revered accordingly! 

Therefore David removed his hat and stooped . . . 
to start suddenly erect at sound of a querulous, high- 
pitched voice: 

‘‘ ’S’matter wi’ th’ owd stoile, young maaster, wot be 
’ee a-smellin’ of it fur ? Man an bye I’ve dumb that 
theer stoile for six-an’-sixty year odd, but never troied 
a-smellin’ of ’e, an’ never knawed nobody as never did! 
. . . Hey, boide a bit, young sir, doan’t ’ee run away 
an’ oi’ll tell ’ee summat as’ll mak’ y’r ’air stand up, 
chill y’r blood an’ freeze y’r marrer—leastways, if it 
doan’t it oughter! ” 

Saying which, Old Joel hobbled forward, alternately 
flourishing his stick and touching his hat as he came. 


26 o The Loring Mystery 

“How are you, Mr. Bybrook?” 

“ Sproy Oi be, sproy as a colt an’ ’appy as a lark an’ 
ready for me supper! I be that ’ungry my innards is 
a-playin’ ‘The British Grenadiers’ drums an’ arl — 
you can ’ear ’em if you ’ark. An’ yonder be my son, 
Young Jole!” and he pointed wavering stick towards 
a tall, grey-headed man, with a mattock on his shoulder, 
who was approaching in hoarse confabulation with the 
red-whiskered William. 

“Come ’ere. Young Jole, come ’ere, me bye!” piped 
the Patriarch, as they drew near. “ This be my friend 
— the noo bailie — say ’ow do to the gen’elman.” 

Obedient to which behest the grey-haired ‘Young’ 
Joel touched earthy finger to grizzled eyebrow and 
muttered hoarsely: 

“ Evenin’, sir! ” 

“Ecod, sir,” quoth the red-whiskered William, grin¬ 
ning sheepishly, “ that was a thunderin’ ’ard crack as 
you ketched me las’ wik’ along theer in the ‘ ’Oss ’! ” 

“I hope I didn’t hurt you too much,” said David. 

“ Why, ye see, sir,” grinned William, “ my ’ead be 
powerful ’ard-loike-” 

“No, thick!” nodded the Patriarch. “Ah;, the 
thickest ’ead in Sussex, William! And us doan’t want 
’ee, so ’old y’r tongue an’ get ’long ’ome-” 

“But, Galfer-” 

“And doan’t ’ee go fur to tell the young gen’elman 
naun o’ y’r lies about seein’ ghostes, neether!” 

“ Lord, Gaffer, I ain’t said a word yet, ’ave I ? ” 

“Nobody won’t never believe ye if ye do, William, 
so ’old y’r tongue. You ain’t seed no ghostes an’ never 
will, you ain’t got the gift-” 

“But I did. Gaffer! I seed Squire’s ghost plain as 
plain, I did — ah, strike me stiff if I did n’t. I seen 
Squire’s ghost limpin’ in the churchyard las’ night — 
limpin’ on ’is left leg, Gaffer, plain as-” 

“ T were ’is roight leg, Oi tell ’ee! ” 







David Hears the Ghost 261 

‘‘ ’T were ’is left, Gaffer! I seen ’un so plain 
as-” 

“You never seed nothin’ at arl, William-” 

“I seen it come a-limpin’ round the corner by Jane 
Birche’s store — on ’is left leg, Gaffer- 

“What loike was it — tell me that!” snarled the 
Patriarch. 

“Why, like a gobling, fur sure. Gaffer, arl crooked 
an’ bowed-like an’ never no sound — ah, an’ limped 
very fast it did — on its left leg-” 

“ ’T were the roight leg, Oi tell ’ee 1 ” 

“ Left, Gaffer I ” 

“ O William 1 ” cried the Patriarch, “ ef Oi did n’t 
want my teeth for better stuff I’d boite ’ee. . . . 
Tak’ ’im away. Young dole, tak’ ’im away afore I 
ketch ’im one in the whiskers wi’ my ol’ bat ’ere I ” 
And the old man flourished his stick belligerently. 

Hereupon the rubicund William was led away, pro¬ 
testing, by the stolid but obedient “Young Joel,” what 
time the indignant Patriarch shook stick in tremulous 
fist and vituperated until he choked. 

“ Oi ’opes as ’ee . . , gets bit ... by a’ adder! ” 
he gasped. “ Doan’t ’ee go fur to believe ’im, young 
man, ’e ain’t never seed no ghostesses an’ couldn’t 
never nowise an’ no’ow I ” 

“But you did, Mr. Bybrook? ” 

“ Ay, fur sure, fur sure! ” cried the old man eagerly, 
“ sarten-sure-indeed I did! Yonder it were agin’ the 
church porch . . . a-fletterin’ an’ a-flutterin’ — ’over- 
ing-loike, and away it went among they tombses and 
never no sound! ” 

“ And you are sure that it . . . limped ? ” 

“ Ay, sarten sure Oi be. ’T were its limp as told me 
wot it were. ‘Be that you, Squoire?’ says I bold as 
bold, ‘Be that you, Squoire? Wun’t they let ’ee rest 
an’ boide comfortable in y’r grave, Squoire? ’ Oi says. 
‘Are ye a-seekin’ y’r murderer, Squoire?’ says Oi. 






262 The Loring Mystery 

An’ at that, young man, it seemed to look at me an’ 
give a sort o’ moan an’ vanished itself away! ” 

“ And then what did you do ? ” 

‘‘Went ’long ’ome to bed. . . . Oi tell ’ee pore 
Squoire’s ghost ’ll go a-fletterin’ an’ flutterin’ weevil- 
some-like until ’is murderer’s found an’ ’ung—Oi 
knows! ” 

“ Strange! ” mused David. 

“ Ah! ” nodded the old man. “ But there be strange 
goin’s-on in lonely churchyards of a noight, ’specially 
where lays a murdered man! ” 

“ And you saw it—^last night, you say? ” 

“ Ah! And I ’ll see it again. Ghostesses is meat an’ 
drink an’ ’bacca to Oi. . . . An’ talkin’ o’ ’bacca, if 
there be ghostesses there be angels tu, Oi reckon! 
Brings me ’bacca, she du, every wik’, an’ bottles o’ 
stuff for me pore old j’ints.” 

“ Who does ? ” 

“ Why, ’er, fur sure! Ef ye want to see — go an’ 
look i’ the church! ” 

“ What — now ? ” 

“ Ah, now! ” 

“ Whom do you mean ? ” 

“I mean — ’er! She be theer now, go an’ look! ” 

So David rose, and following a path that led be¬ 
tween green mounds and mossy headstones worn by long 
years, came to the church and softly opened massive 
door whose solid oak and stout iron had, like enough, 
withstood vengeful steel ere now, and, stepping into the 
ancient building, stood suddenly still,- for the place 
seemed full of a small, soft singing wonderfully sweet. 

She was kneeling in that remote corner where, worn 
by centuries of years, the battered stone effigy of the 
first Sir David in his ring-mail, Knight of the Cross 
and founder of the church, marked the final resting- 
place of his descendants — Humphreys, Nevils and 
Davids. 


David Hears the Ghost 263 

Suddenly the singing ended and, as if aware of his 
entrance, she glanced up. 

“Mistress Belinda!” said David, and went towards 
her. 

“Ah, is it you, sir?” she smiled, rising from her 
knees and giving him her hand. 

“ I fear I disturbed you? ” 

“ Nay, I had finished, sir. ... I come here fre¬ 
quently at evening to sing to him. . . . and though I 
sing so very softly, yet he, being dead, can hear me, of 
course, since the dead are perfected. But O Mr. 
David, I fear he is a very lonely soul — indeed, I know 
he is . . . and full of grief for the past . . . the 
wasted opportunities . . . the evil he did — the good 
he might have done. . . . My poor Nevil! O, the 
Past, for ever gone! The evil that lives on after the 
hand that wrought it is stilled! Is there any pain so 
sharp as remorse in life? Then how much sharper and 
more bitter in death! O poor, solitary Nevil! . . . 
And so it is he cannot rest of a night, and so it is I 
come here to sing to him, hoping it may comfort him a 
little.” 

“ You knew him well, lady? ” 

“So well that beneath the evil I am sure lay the 
good — which can never die, sir—the good that lived 
on in him despite hereditary evil.” 

“ Hereditary, lady ? ” 

“Alas, Mr. David, there have been many evil Bor¬ 
ings ! It was to win pardon for past deadly sin that 
the first Sir David fought and suffered in King Rich¬ 
ard’s Crusade, and since then the old evil has some¬ 
times reared its wicked head. . . . Poor Nevil! But 
kindly Death has set him free at last . . . free to sin 
no more! Death which is so like to sleep. Death that 
is the great deliverer. . . . But, being dead, he knows 
now and grieves for past evil, and can find no rest, even 
now, poor lonely soul! ” 


264 The Loring Mystery 

“ But, lady, if — if he is dead ... ” stammered 

David. 

“ His body lies beneath our feet, sir,” she answered, 
“but only his body. Who dare say where his spirit 
is? Who can tell what—^hush!” Uttering the word 
she raised one slim hand suddenly and stood as if 
listening, her gentle gaze bent upon the timeworn stone 
at her feet, whereon David could read the new-graven 
inscription: 

Sacked to the Memory 

OF 

Sir Nevie Loring 
Aged 52. 

Thirteenth baronet. 

The dusk had deepened about them, filling the an¬ 
cient church with shadows that crept stealthily, the 
air seemed colder. 

“ Mrs. Belinda,” said David, at last, in hushed voice, 
“ do you, then — can you believe that the dead may — 
come back-?” 

“ Listen! ” she breathed, and he felt her hand upon 
his, warm and soft and steady, and upon her lips a 
smile ineffably tender, “ Listen! ” she whispered. 

A timber creaked in the ancient roof, the age-old 
walls seemed full of mysterious rustlings; and then, 
despite vigorous youth, David’s blood chilled, as above 
these sounds rose another ... a soft whisper, a vague 
stirring that grew to a sound dreadfully familiar which 
seemed to steal upon the shadows and was gone . . . 
the soft fall of limping feet. 

Instinctively David shrank until, being stayed by 
the massive pillar behind him, he leaned there staring 
towards that gravestone with its new-cut lettering, 
incapable alike of coherent speech or thought until 
roused by Mrs. Belinda’s soft voice: 



David Hears the Ghost 265 

‘‘You heard it? ” she whispered, clasping her hands 
and turning eyes heavenward. “ You heard it, Mr. 
David? This is why I steal here of an evening to sing 
to him! . . . O Nevil — my poor Nevil!” 

For a while David remained motionless where he 
stood gazing fixedly before him; when at last he 
glanced around he found himself alone. Then very 
deliberately he approached the great stone which 
covered the Loring tomb and stood gazing down at 
the last, and newest, brief and non-commital epitaph. 

From this examination he was suddenly aroused by 
a soft tapping and, glancing towards a certain leaded 
window, espied a dim face peering in at him, a face 
surmounted by a wide-brimmed hat. Even as he stared, 
this face vanished; thereafter he was aware of heavy 
footsteps and Mr. Shrig came towards him through 
the deepening gloom. 

‘‘How goes it, pal?” he enquired, his hearty tones 
echoing strangely from roof and walls. “You looks a 
bit rum — eh, vot is it?” 

“ I wish,” answered David, his voice low and 
troubled, “I wish I knew . . . for, by Heaven, Jasper, 
I am either mad or ... a dead man walks 1 ” 

Mr. Shrig’s eyes grew suddenly round, his placid 
brow showed wrinkled and, stepping nearer, he peered 
into David’s face. 

“ Eh— you too, pal? ” he enquired. “ D’ye mean as 
you’ve seen this here ghost as they tell on — you?” 

“I heard it, Jasper!” 

“Heard it?” repeated Mr. Shrig, in tone suddenly 
hushed. “Vot — here, pal? What like vas it?” 

“Footsteps, Jasper, that went with a limp!” 

“Aha!” sighed Mr. Shrig, and stood gazing up at 
the roof, his lips pursed in their soundless whistle. 

“You . . . believe me, Jasper?” 

“Ay, I do, pal, I do—^every vord! You’ve done 
me a power o’ good! ” 


266 The Loring Mystery 

How have I done you good? ” 

To-night I scratches out another on ’em . . , 
Five is Four, pal!” 

‘‘What — whom do you mean?” 

“ Ghosts is a bit out o’ my line, pal, but whenever 
’appens acrost ’em perfessionally I acts according.” 

“How, Jasper?” 

“Pal, I’ve never met a ghost yet as could wanish 
itself avay once I got my daddies or, as you might say, 
fambles on it . . . And now come along o’ me! When 
ghosts is a-flitting there’s naught so ’eartening as a 
pot of ‘old’ . . . so—^come along o’ Jarsper!” 


CHAPTER XXXIX 
Mr. Shrig Makes a Further Discovery 

Mr. Shrig, seated with David in the rustic arbour 
of ‘‘ The Rearing Horse ” Inn, set down his half- 
emptied tankard and sighed. 

‘‘’Tis a pore ’eart as never rej’ices, pal!” quoth he. 

Here’s you made bailiff to your werry own estates ! ” 

“ True, Jasper! But why should you rejoice.? ” 

“Veil . . . this ’ere ghost, pal!” 

“Ay, the spectre that limps . . . What do you 
think of it, Jasper?” 

“ A precious lot! ” answered Mr. Shrig, shaking his 
head. “ Here’s me, now, an’ others o’ my lads been a- 
seekin’ an’ a-searchin’ ’eavens ’ard for two birds as is 
flew avay^——” 

“Meaning Bowker and Yaxley, Jasper?” 

“The werry same, pal.” 

“ Have you captured them ? ” 

“ Ay, I ’ave, pal — leastvays vun on ’em! ” 

“What, have you taken Yaxley — have you found 
him at last? ” 

“Not yet, pal — t’other ’un.” 

“ Bowker? ” exclaimed David anxiously. “Have you 
taken poor Ben Bowker? ” 

“Ay, I got ’im, pal, safe an’ sound — under lock an’ 
key — at Lewes! ” 

“ But he is no murderer! ” 

“No more ’e ain’t, pal, accordin’ to my de-ductions, 
but then, again—^’e may be, and vot’s more, ’e knows 
summat — same as you knows summat.” 

“ Then why not lock me up also ? ” 



268 The Loring Mystery 

“ Because I knows vhere I can clap a daddle on ye, 
pal, vhenever needful-” 

“ O indeed, Jasper? ” 

“ Ah! I ’ll find you ’enceforth not a thousand mile 
from Number Two — us knows ’oo!” Here beholding 
David’s indignant look, Mr. Shrig raised his tankard: 
“Long life, ’ealth and ’appiness, pal!” quoth he, and 
drank copiously. 

“And pray,” enquired David, a little haughtily, 
“pray what of the man Yaxley?” 

“Pal,” said Mr. Shrig, pausing to blow into his 
tankard, “ if I has any luck, I’m ’oping to show ’im to 
ye nicely tarred agin’ the veather an’ ironed agin’. 
Body-snatchers, a-danglin’ werry secure on a gibbet 
afore the moon changes I ” 

“ Ha! ” exclaimed David, starting. “ So he is the 
murderer, then? You are sure at last?” 

“Ay, sartin sure as he’s a murderer, pal . . . Now, 
talkin’ o’-” 

murderer, Jasper? Surely you mean the 
murderer ? ” 

or the, pal — vot’s the odds? An’ talkin’ 
o’-” 

“Do you mean that you know him for Sir Nevil 
Loring’s murderer?” 

“I knows ’im for a true Capital Cove, pal — ah, 
knowed it I did the moment I clapped my ogles — or 
as you might say peepers on ’im, I did! So there 
y’are! An’ now, talkin’ o’ this here ghost-” 

“But,” David demurred, “you have not answered 

niy- What on earth is that?” he broke off, for 

somewhere adjacent was a faint scratching. 

“That?” answered Mr. Shrig, placidly cocking an 
ear. “ It sounds like a cat, but it ain’t ... it might be 
a dog but, likevise again, it ain’t! ’T is only Dan’l! 
Come forrard, lad! ” he called softly, whereupon a 
small, furtive shape stole into view, a slim, meek- 







A Further Discovery 269 

looking person whose mild features were framed in 
hay-like whiskers. 

“This here’s Dan’l, pal!” said Mr. Shrig. “An’ 
though you don’t know Dan’l, Dan’l knows you — eh, 
Dan’l? ” 

“Ah!” murmured the furtive Dan’l, touching non¬ 
descript headgear and blinking, meekly apologetic. 

“Wot Dan’l don’t know — ain’t!” said Mr. Shrig. 
“ As sharp as a packet o’ needles and wi’ more o’ the 
Old Adam about ’im than folks might think! That’s 
Dan’l, pal! ’Ow goes it, Dan’l?” 

“ All serene, Jarsper, ’e’s a-comin’ along now.” 

“Werry good, Dan’l. Ha’ ye got the cotton?” 

“Ay, Jarsper.” 

“ Black an’ vhite an’ plenty on it ? ” 

“Here, Jarsper.” 

“ Then give it over, and lay low, Dan’l, and be 
ready.” 

“Right-o, Jarsper.” 

“ Perhaps I had better retire? ” said David as the 
stealthy Dan’l vanished; but when he would have risen 
Mr. Shrig’s heavy hand stayed him. 

“ Sit where y’are, pal, keep in the shadder — you 
won’t be seen, and if y’are it won’t matter none . . . 
only keep still. Are ye armed?” 

“No.” 

“ That’s a blessing! ” 

“Why do you ask? ” 

“ Hist! ” said Mr. Shrig, and rose, his burly form 
blocking the arbour’s narrow entrance; and David 
heard the sound of feet striding rapidly towards them 
along the garden-path nearer and nearer until they 
stopped suddenly; then: 

“ Good evenin’, sir! ” said Mr. Shrig. 

“ Well, what do you want ? ” demanded the new¬ 
comer, whose carefully modulated voice and imperious 
tone David instantly recognised. 


270 The Loring Mystery 

“Why are you here, Mr. Maulyveery, sir? ” en¬ 
quired Mr. Shrig placidly. 

“You sent for me-” 

“Ay, but you didn’t vant to come, sir, and nobody 
forced ye to come, sir, so vhy did ye come, sir? ” 

“ A man brought me your note! ” 

“ Vherein I mentioned the name of a certain young 

fe-male party as you-” 

“Yes — yes!” exclaimed Mr. Maulverer harshly, 
“ Well, I am here I What do you want? ” 

“First to ax you vot you vas a-doing of in Sir N.’s 
room on the night o’ the murder?” 

“Who says I was there?” 

“Your boots, sir — a smear o’ ink on the sole! Vot 
brought you along o’ the corp’, Mr. Maulyveery, sir? ” 
“Suppose I refuse to answer?” 

“You’ll make it all the vorse for the fe-male as I 
mentioned in my message.” 

Here Mr. Maulverer uttered a sound very like a 
groan. 

“ I ... I have nothing to tell you . . . nothing! ” 
said he. 

“ Then, sir, I adwise you to tell it and ha’ done . . . 
for the sake of . . . let’s say — another! ” 

“How? . . . What do you suggest?” 

“ Come, come — vot brought you there? Tell me all 
you know! ” 

For a space Mr. Maulverer was silent — when at 
last he spoke his voice was imperious no longer: 

“I had retired for the night . . . but . . . before 
I could undress I fancied he — Sir Nevil—^ called me. 
So I went down and found him — dead.” 

“ And so the candles was alight, then, sir? ” 

“Yes!” 

“ What o’clock was it ? ” 

“ I don’t know ... I did n’t notice! Past midnight, 
I fancy.” 




A Further Discovery 271 

“And ’aving deskivered the dead body — vot did ye 
do then? ” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ Nothing, eh? ” 

“No! . . . I went back to my room.” 

“ And you see nobody, sir, cornin’ or goin’ ? ” 

“No.” 

“And heer’d nothin’ — a footstep, say, a rustle?” 
“No ... no!” 

“Quite sure o’ that, sir?” 

“ I . . . yes — quite sure, I tell you.” 

“An’ you left the candles burnin’, sir?” 

“Yes ... no!” 

“Take your ch’ice, sir.” 

“No. I extinguished them.” 

“An’ took yourself off to bed, sir, leaving the corp’ 
in the dark? ” 

“I returned to my room.” 

“Leavin’ the cadaver to be found in the mornin’. 
P’raps you ’ll tell me why, sir? ” 

“Because I judged it best.” 

‘^An’ why didn’t you alarm the ’ouse, sir?” 

“For a . . . sufficient reason.” 

“What reason, sir?” 

“ I refuse to say.” 

“Do ye, sir?” 

“I do.” 

“Won’t tell me — eh, sir?” 

“ No —no!” 

“Ha!” sighed Mr. Shrig softly. “Now I fancy as 
I can tell ye your reason—shall I try, sir?” 

“As you will.” 

Werry good, sir. First, then, you ’re in love vith 
a certain young fe-male party — ain’t you? . . . 
Steady, sir! Yes, I see y’are and conseqvently I knows 

your reason — and here it is in three vords-” 

Once more came that sound so like a groan, but louder 



272 The Loring Mystery 

now and with the sudden, quick scrape of a foot . . . 
Then, all at once, Mr. Shrig was gone from the door¬ 
way, and, peering through the dusk, David saw a blur 
of twisting, writhing forms, heard fierce-drawn breaths, 
shuffling feet with other sounds of strife, and leaping 
forth of the arbour, saw Mr. Maulverer struggling in 
the grasp of two arms that pinioned him from behind, 
while Mr. Shrig gripped that hand which held the swift- 
drawn pistol. 

“Murder me . . . would ye.^ ’Old fast, Dan’l! 
. . . Now, sir, gimme your barker!” panted Mr. 
Shrig, and with a surprising dexterity possessed him¬ 
self of the deadly weapon. “ That’s better! ” quoth 
he. “ All right, Dan’l, leave the gen’leman go I ” 

Mr. Maulverer, pale and dishevelled, glanced help¬ 
lessly arround with a despairing motion of hard-wrung 
hands, yet uttered no word. 

“ Sir,” said Mr. Shrig, pocketing the pistol, “ you 
’ave commit a grave offence agin’ my person an’ the 
law; any ordinary officer vould go for to arrest ye. 
But, then, I ain’t a’ ordinary officer, I’m Shrig o’ Bow 
Street, a Bashaw o’ the Pigs . . . an’ Capital Coves 
is my meat — not your sort, so, Mr. Maulyveery, sir, 
you can go . . . Only mark an’ ’eed this, sir . . . 
You thinks as you knows the party as murdered Sir 
Nevil Loring, Barrynet, and Mr. ’Edges ’e thinks ’e 
knows, but I — do know . . . leastways if I don’t, 
nobody do. An’ mind this, sir, them as murders ’angs, 
’igh degree or low, male or fe-male-” 

Mr. Maulverer threw out his hands with a sudden 
wild gesture and, uttering a hoarse, inarticulate sound, 
turned and hurried away into the shadows. 

“Arter ’im, Dan’l!” said Mr. Shrig softly and, 
seating himself again in the arbour, beckoned David 
beside him. 



CHAPTER XL 

Concerning Mr. Shrig, his Methods 

“An ’ighly inter-esting young gen’leman, pal! Mr. 
Maulyveery, or Number Three, is a werry promising 
case 1 ” 

“ On the contrary,” said David indignantly, “ he is 
a man — and indeed more human than I supposed! 
. . .You suggested he was in love with someone — whom 
did you mean.^” 

“ ’E knows, pal . . . and it vorked.” 

“ O despicable! ” exclaimed David. “ To threaten a 
man through his affections! To terrorise him by in¬ 
sinuations against one he loves! Such methods might 
surely drive any man desperate.” 

“ Ah! ” nodded Mr. Shrig, “ and pal. Number Three 
— Mr. M. — is a-goin’ to be drove more desp’rit afore 
I’m done. For I’m a Agent o’ the Law wi’ methods 
different from most, d’ye see . . . methods o’ my 
own-” 

“Well, such methods seem unjust and cruel to me!” 
said David. “And you haven’t answered my ques¬ 
tion-” 

“No, pal! My dooty is to ax questions, not to 
answer ’em. And as to my methods — look’ee ! Some 
folks is usefullest to a’ enquiring cove like me only 
when drove desp’rit and others only when afraid, some 
you must treat crool and some you must treat kind 
to come at vot you vant. Now, Mr. M.—Number 
Three — ain’t afeard o’ nobody nor nothin’ ... ex¬ 
cept— veil, I know vot an’ acts accordin’ ... an’ 




274 The Loring Mystery 

one result is Windictiveness in the shape of a silver- 
mounted popper! ” Here from capacious pocket Mr. 
Shrig drew a small pistol which David recognised, even 
in the half-light, as fellow to that which he had taken 
from Sir Nevil Loring. “An’ t’other result I shall 
know as soon as Dan’l comes back. Meantime I 
scratches Number Three off my list o’ possibles.” 

“ What ? ” exclaimed David, peering into Mr. 
Shrig’s placid face, “ you think he is innocent ... 

“Ah! As innercent as yourself, pal. The six is 
now three!” 

“And who — who . . . which are these three?” 

“ I ’ll tell ye, pal — if you ’ll v’isper and tell your 
pal Jarsper vot you done wi’ that theer silver-’andled 
stilletter . . . Come, vot d’ye say ? ” 

“No!” 

“No!” repeated Mr. Shrig, “Hum! Sometimes 
I’m a bit saprised as Jarsper is your pal, pal. Seein’ 
as you’ve done so much to hinder and ’amper pore 
Jarsper! Seein’ ’ow you’ve thieved pore Jarsper’s 
cloos, first the knife an’ then the ’air — the long, red 
’air as come off’n the lovely ’ead — or as you might 
say tibby — O, you-know-’oo, an’ both con-cloosive 
ewidence agin’ you-know-’oo-” 

“ Which I deny! ” cried David passionately, “ I say 
they are not conclusive ... I tell you-” 

“Ah — but vot do you think?” demanded Mr. Shrig, 
suddenly grim. “You- can say vot you like, an’ 
tell vot you like, an’ deny all you like, but — vot 
do you think ? That’s the qvestion! What do ye 
think an’—fear?” 

Here David shrank back into dark corner and was 
silent; whereupon Mr. Shrig answered for him: 

“What you think is a-troublin’ you now, an’ did 
trouble you to that degree as you took and made off 
wi’ that knife an’ that ’air! An’ because vhy? Be¬ 
cause by so doin’ you ’oped to throw pore Jarsper off 




Mr. Shrig’s Methods 275 

the scent — ’stead o’ vich, you throwed him on! I ’ll 
’ave these daddies o’ mine on the guilty party sooner 
than you may expect, for if my methods is cruel an’ 
unjust they generally succeeds . . . And the law is 
the law, dooty is dooty, an’ them as murders ’angs, 
be they-” 

“ Stop! ” cried David, springing to his feet; and, 
with both hands upon his companion’s broad shoulders, 
leaned to peer into his impassive face. “I believe this 
was no murder, Jasper!” said he, “I do believe this 
was the most justifiable homicide that an evil man ever 
brought upon himself. I believe that whoever struck 
that fatal blow—killed Sir Nevil in- 

‘‘The werry act o’ writing, pal! You’ll mind ’is 
fingers was stained wi’ ink, and the pen broke . . . 
hist! Somebody’s a-coming! ” Sure enough upon the 
heavy air was a sound of running feet that yet trod 
softly, and a small figure stole into view. 

“ How goes it, Dan’l ? ” 

“ All’s bowmon, pal! ” panted the meek Dan’l, 
’s there!” 

“Went in, did ’e.?” 

“Ay, Jarsper.” 

“ An’ then you vaited — eh.?^ ” 

“ Fi’ minutes, Jarsper. Then in I goes and finds ’e’d 
wanished away like ’e did afore.” 

“And the ghost-traps, Dan’l.?^” 

“ The li’l cupboard under the stair, Jarsper.” 

“The cupboard, eh! Burn me if I’d ever ha’ sus¬ 
pected that! Ha’ you got the lanthorn ? ” 

“’Ere, Jarsper.” 

“ Good lad! ” quoth Mr. Shrig, rising to take the 
article in question. “And now, pal David,” said he, 
“if you ’ave a mind to a bit o’ ghost-’unting— say the 
vord! ” 

“ Yes! ” answered David, and stepped out from the 
arbour. 




276 The Loring Mystery 

‘‘ Spoke like a bang-up sportsman, pal. ... As 
for you, Dan’l, get ye to bed, us ’ll ’ave a busy 
day tomorrow; ah, an’ a wakeful night, like as not. 
So olf wi’ you, Dan’l. . . . An’ now, pal David, 
since you ain’t afeared o’ ghosts — step along o’ 
Jarsper.” 


CHAPTER XLI 

Tells How Mr. Shrig Went Ghost-hunting 

Some ten minutes’ walk beyond the village, Mr. 
Shrig turned sharp to the right down a very narrow, 
deeply rutted lane until, stopping before a broken gate 
that hung askew, he pointed to a small and desolate 
cottage, its dreariness rendered more apparent by a 
rising moon. 

“ Bein’ stooard to your werry own estates you’ve 
been here afore, pal, maybe 

“No,” answered David, wondering, “what place is 
this ? ” 

“Thomas Ya!s;ley’s cottage, pal, and them trees as 
you spies beyond is Loring Vood. , . . An’ talkin’ o’ 
vood, ’ere’s a bit as I’ve found werry ’andy now an’ 
then. Ye see, us may run foul o’ Windictiveness in 
some shape or other, and you ’ll find this ’ere ‘ crab ’ 
o’ mine play werry pretty at close quarters! ” Saying 
which, Mr. Shrig handed David his famous knobbed 
stick and, opening the rickety gate, strode up the 
neglected path, threw open the cottage door and en¬ 
tered, all in a moment. For a while he stood in the 
dim interior utterly still, as if listening intently, then, 
bidding David enter, took out flint and steel and set 
about lighting the lanthorn, whose beam showed them 
a small, untidy chamber that bore a grim look of hav¬ 
ing been suddenly deserted; the muddy boots thrown 
carelessly into a corner, the litter of unwashed platters 
upon ramshackle table, the wizened-faced clock in the 
corner, which, being stopped, seemed to David as if 
holding its breath in horrified expectancy. 


278 The Loring Mystery 

Mr. Shrig threw the beam of his lanthorn where, in 
one corner, was a narrow stair beneath which a small 
door gaped upon a shallow cupboard; from this he 
turned to examine the stair itself across which a fine 
cotton was stretched, lastly the shuttered and curtain¬ 
less window across which another cotton ran. 

“ Ghost-trap, pal,” said he, whispering, ‘‘ I never 
knowed a ghost yet as vas proof agin’ cotton! ” So 
saying he approached the cupboard, surveying it with 
much apparent interest, then from capacious pocket 
he drew a short though heavy brass-mounted pistol 
and therewith began very gently to tap at the sides 
and back of this cupboard. 

‘‘’Oiler!” he nodded, “You ’ear that . . . an’ that? 
’Oiler as a drum, pal 1 ” 

“A secret door?” enquired David, stepping nearer. 

“ Eggsackly I ” nodded Mr. Shrig complacently. 
“ I ’ll find the trick of it in a bit — or break it down. 

. . . Ah! ” The back of the cupboard swung suddenly 
into gloom, leaving a narrow aperture that framed a 
black void. Mr. Shrig’s pistol clicked sharply as he 
cocked it; then, following whither he led, David found 
himself in a narrow passage, damp and noisome. 

Slowly and cautiously Mr. Shrig advanced until 
they came where the passage made a sharp turn, and 
here, in the angle, frowned a narrow door, its massive 
timbers reinforced by stout though rusty iron. Mr. 
Shrig surveyed this grim obstruction placidly and, 
having tried it, shook his head: 

“ An’ there y’are, pal I ” quoth he, “ A barrel o’ gun¬ 
powder might open it.” So saying, he turned and led 
the way along the passage with the same elaborate 
caution. As they advanced the air grew the more fetid 
until at last Mr. Shrig paused. 

“Smell anything, pal?” he enquired. 

“ Could anyone help smelling it ? ” answered David. 
“Faugh!” 


I Ghost-hunting 279 

“It ain’t eggsackly roses,” said Mr. Shrig, sniffing. 
I “No, nor yet lilies o’ the walley ... an’ yet — hum! 
i Don’t it remind you o’ summat?” 

“Corruption!” replied David. 

I “Werry true, pal! . . . Hist! D’ye hear any- 
I thing 

I Borne to them on the noxious air was a faint 
[whisper of sound, vague and indistinct. 

“D’ye hear it, pal? ” 

“What is it, Jasper?” 

“ Look at the roof! ” 

Glancing up, David saw the masonry above them 
all slimily a-gleam in the uncertain light. 

“Pah!” he exclaimed in shrinking disgust, “Let us 
go forward or back again.” 

“Forrard it is, pal!” 

Little by little the vague sounds grew more distinct 
until David knew these for the monotonous drip, drip 
of water. 

“ Jasper, where in the world are we?” 

“Us ’ll know soon, pal . . . and Caution says ‘Go 
easy! ’ Aha! ” They had reached another sharp bend 
or corner, and Mr. Shrig, halting suddenly, raised 
the lanthorn to peer towards a black void that opened 
before them, a dark abyss whence, it seemed, breathed 
this cold and fetid air. 

“ Tread cautious! ” said Mr. Shrig, as with the 
lanthorn before him he advanced until, peering over 
his shoulder, David saw they stood close upon this 
gloomy abyss beyond which rose a wall of curved 
masonry whose slimy stones were splotched, here and 
there, with huge, pallid fungoid growths; while the 
evil place echoed and re-echoed with the drip-drip of 
falling water far below. 

“Pal,” said Mr. Shrig, his voice booming strangely 
in the void, “pal David, can ye guess where we are — 
now? ” And in that moment David knew, and felt 


28 o The Loring Mystery 

again that sense of creeping horror, that indefinable 
dread that mocked his reason. 

“Yes!” he answered, “Yes, the well — let us go, 
Jasper.” 

Mr. Shrig turned suddenly and looked at him, and 
so for a moment they stared at each other, eye to eye. 

“ Pal David,” said he, “ if a man vas to be dropped 
down yonder, that man would wanish and stay 
wanished till the crack o’ doom. . . . But, Davy man, 
I’m a-goin’ to take a peep all the same I ” 

As he spoke, Mr. Shrig pocketed his pistol, crept 
cautiously to the brink of the abyss and, holding the 
lanthorn far out over the void, peered up and down, 
to right, to left, and uttered a sudden exclamation, his 
voice booming awfully in the chasm. 

“Bum my innards!” he ejaculated. Then, setting 
the lanthorn against slimy wall, he caught David by 
the arm: “ Pal,” said he, his usual placidity quite 
gone, “you’re pretty strong. . . . O pal — reach up 
under my coat-tails and ketch ’old o’ my belt . . . 
ketch ’old, I tell ye—so! Now ’old on ’eavens ’ard — 
don’t leggo or your pal Jarsper ’ll be a goner! . . . 
Are ye ready-? ” 

“ But what — what . . . why . . . what are you 
going to do ? ” stammered David. 

“ I’m a-going to trust my life t’you, pal. ...I’m 
a-going to reach out over yon devil’s pit . . . my 
right arm round the angle o’ the vail, pal, and you ’re 
a-goin’ to brace yourself agin’ my weight! Now . . . 
are ye ready ? Then — easy does it! ” 

So saying, and before David might prevent, Mr. 
Shrig began to edge himself out over the abyss, his left 
hand grasping David’s arm, his right extended round the 
angle of the wall, farther and farther, while David, his 
two hands gripping his companion’s belt, braced himself 
to take the strain that grew heavier with every passing 
moment until he uttered a breathless word of caution. 



Ghost-hunting 281 

‘‘Right- 0 !” exclaimed Mr. Shrig in sudden jubila¬ 
tion, his voice booming louder than ever. Heave 
away, pal, heave it is — and gently does it! ” 

Thus by slow degrees and with David’s assistance, 
Mr. Shrig edged himself back again into safety; then, 
clapping David blithely on the shoulder, he picked up 
the lanthorn and began to hasten back whence they 
had come. 

“What was it.^^” questioned David breathlessly. 
“What was it, Jasper.?” 

“ Summat as vill sap-rise ye, pal . . . come an’ 
see! ” 

Very soon they were back in the desolate room of 
Thomas Yaxley’s cottage; there, having carefully 
closed the secret door and set the lanthorn upon table, 
Mr. Shrig turned to face David with a strange smile. 

“ Pal,” said he, “ I told ye Fortune was wi’ me, 
didn’t I?” 

“Well, Jasper.?” 

“ Well, now I tell you as Fate’s agin’ you. . . . Pal 
— look at this here! ” 

Slowly and deliberately Mr. Shrig raised his right 
hand, his keen gaze upon David’s face, and laid upon 
the table an object at sight of which David shrank 
away, uttering a gasp of horrified dismay; for there, 
its fouled and rusted steel piercing through crumpled 
and discoloured paper, its haft gleaming evilly, lay the 
silver-hilted dagger. 

“ Pal,” said Mr. Shrig, carefully removing the paper 
from this dreadful thing, “ I guessed it might sap-rise 
ye. . . . It was a-stickin’ in vun o’ them theer lumps 
o’ fungus as is a-growin’ agin’ the vail! An’ now, look 
at this here ’alf-sheet o’ paper . . . the paper as Sir 
Nevil was struck dead a-writin’ of! I found t’other 
’arf days ago, but this is the right ’alf—look’ee here!” 

With the utmost care Mr. Shrig smoothed out this 
tom and crumpled paper discoloured by damp and 


282 The Loring Mystery 

fouled by awful stains and, stooping above it, David 
saw this: 


iiM 

f &dd eomnj 

%i/j ^ do Oyd) 

'j)fiddd\j (A'ialto<X4^ '0^ 



“ So ye see, pal, Sir Nevil vas struck dead afore ’e 
could finish writin’ Yaxley’s name — killed in the werry 
act . . . but not by Yaxley, pal! ... No, not by 
Yaxley ... it are n’t in reason! Yaxley vould vait 
till his name were wrote out fair and plain afore ’e 
struck.” 

“Perhaps . . . perhaps Yaxley cannot read, 
Jasper.” 

“ I know as Yaxley can, pal.” 

“Then mayhap he struck without reading-” 

“No, pal! The person as struck the blow knowed 
vot Sir Nevil vas a-writing and snatched the paper 
from under Sir Nevil’s werry ’and as he wrote — you 
can see where ’is pen slipped. The person as murdered 
Sir Nevil Loring killed ’im to prewent him leavin’ the 
property to Thomas Yaxley. . . . And there y’are, 
pal! The question I ax is — ’00 benefits? An’ you 
know ’00 — an’ so do I. Wherefore, pal, to-night I 
scratches Thomas Yaxley off of my list . . . the 
three is — two, pal! ” 



CHAPTER XLII 


How Mr. Shrig was Caught Napping 


Down sank David into rickety chair, his head bowed 
I between clasping hands. Quoth Mr. Shrig: 

“Fate’s agin’ you, pal, an’ Fortune’s wi’ me!” 

“ Yes! ” said David drearily, “ Fate is surely against 
me, Jasper.” 

“And bein’ agin’ you, pal, is conseqvently agin’ — 
us-knows-’oo likevise! . . . An’ arter all your ham¬ 
pering o’ me, too I ” David closed his eyes wearily. 
“Ye see, pal. Lord love ye — here’s ewidence enough 
to bring anyone to the gallers!” 

David shivered violently. 

“And what do you propose to do with the dagger, 
1 Jasper?” he enquired, without lifting despondent head. 

! “ No, no! ” said Mr. Shrig, leaning across the table. 

^“If I vas to tell you that — you’d lay to cir cum went 
me again. So mum’s the vord.”- 

“Jasper Shrig, if you are indeed my friend, give 
me that accursed thing.” 

“No, pal! And because vhy? Because, though 
I’m your friend, I’m a law officer also — and dooty 


Over went the rickety chair with a crash as David 
leapt with hand outstretched towards the dagger, to 
have that hand caught in iron fingers and feel the 
muzzle of the brass-mounted pistol hard against his 
ribs. Thus for a moment they stood, David scowling 
I and rigid, Mr. Shrig placid yet determined. 

I Siddown, Sir David Loring! ” said he at last, 
I “ Siddown or, by Hookey, I ’ll pull trigger! ” 








284 The Loring Mystery 

David picked up the fallen chair and, sitting down, 
stared fiercely up into the Bow Street officer’s square, 
impassive face. 

“ So you ’ll make ye’self an accessory arter the fact, 
vill ye? ” 

“ Gladly! ” answered David. “ Heartily! Body and 
soul! ” 

“ Hum! ” exclaimed Mr. Shrig, peering. ‘‘ I ain’t 
ever been in love myself — except vunce, an’ then 
only-” 

“ Do you wish money? ” 

“ Being ’uman, I says. Ah! ” nodded Mr. Shrig. 
“And ax’s — ’ow much?” 

“I will claim my inheritance and you shall name 
your own sum.” 

“ Bribery now — eh? ” 

“If possible!” answered David. “And without 
limit. Suffer the Loring Mystery to remain the Loring 
Mystery, and you shall be a rich man, Jasper Shrig.” 

“ Vich means as you ’re sartin sure in your own mind 
at least ’00 killed Sir Nevil — eh?” 

“ Whoever did so wrought a meritorious act I ” 

“ An’ committed a Capital Deed I An’ them as 
murders — ’angs-” 

“And I say, no!” cried David. “At least not if 
I can prevent ... by any means — any means! . . . 
O damnation, man — the thought is too horrible, I 
tell you-” 

“And I tell you that vomen have hung afore this 
and-” 

“ Don’t! ” cried David. “ Don’t! . . . Jasper — O 
Jasper, hush up this hateful business and live a rich 
man! ” 

“Lord!” exclaimed Mr. Shrig, folding his arms. 
“First Mr. Maulyveery tries to come it over me wi’ a 
barker, an’ now here’s you offerin’ me a fortun’ as you 
ain’t got! . . . And look’ee! ” he added, as David 






Mr. Shrig Caught Napping 285 

scowled, “don’t go for to try no more tricks, I’m a 
peaceable cove, a’ even-tempered cove by natur’, but 
the kindest- earted man in the vorld is apt to grow a 
bit peevish if aggrawated too often, and I might ’urt 
you. Howsomever, I ain’t to be intimidated nor yet 
bribed, for dooty is dooty! ” 

David leaned back in his chair and, happening to 
glance towards the cupboard, saw that it had no back; 
his warning shout was drowned in a deafening roar and 
out went the light. Instantly David was upon his feet, 
groping feverishly, blindly; and now in the dark was 
a furious struggling—trampling feet, the sound of 
blows, a heavy fall; then a voice called upon his name, 
a hoarse cry that ended in a sudden ghastly wheezing. 
David leapt haphazard and smote, heard a horrible 
whistling snuffle and was hurled aside by a mighty arm 
that spun him reeling to the wall. There leaned he 
a moment, hearkening to a vague, ceaseless scuffling, 
above which rose that awful, thin and sharp-drawn 
wheezing accompanied now by the quick, spasmodic 
thudding of boot-heels upon the floor; and knowing 
what this meant, David sought desperately until he 
found the chair and, whirling it aloft, sprang towards 
that corner of the room where Death was so busy and 
smote at random, heard a hissing groan, felt the chair 
wrenched from him by unseen hands and, plunging in 
to avoid the answering blow, tripped over a prostrate, 
groaning shape and fell, to lie half-stunned. 

But presently, aware of a painful, labored gasping 
near-by, he reached out cautious hand and, groping, 
grasped a square-toed boot, a top-boot there was no 
mistaking. 

“ Jasper” he panted. “ Why . . . Jasper . . . 
how are you ? ” 

Receiving no answer he rose and, gripping his com¬ 
panion beneath the arms, dragged him across the room 
and out into the sweet, cool night air. 


286 The Loring Mystery 

And after some while Mr. Shrig groaned, choked, 
cursed feebly, and sat up. 

“Pal,” said he faintly, “if it ’ad n’t been for you, 
burn me but I’d have been a job for the coroner to sit 
on! If you ’ad n’t stood by pore Jarsper like a true 
pal . . . O, blow my dickey! . . . Tip me your 
daddle, pal Davy! ” 

And so, sitting there beneath the stars, they very 
solemnly shook hands; which done, Mr. Shrig felt his 
throat with tender solicitude, hawked plaintively, 
coughed, and nodded. 

“All right now, Jasper.?” 

“As a trivet, pal! There’s no bones broke, likevise 
my windpipe’s still vhere it ought to be and I can draw 
the wital air—thanks to you. But I knows vot a 
strangler’s ’ands feel like, an’ I knows vot it is to be 
choked to death and . . . there’s kinder deaths, pal! 
But I’ve lamed vun or two things to-night, an’ vun on 
’em’s never to carry your wipe along o’ your 
popper! ” 

Here Mr. Shrig thrust hand into pocket and, after a 
brief though fierce wrestle, brought thence the brass- 
mounted pistol entangled in the voluminous folds of a 
large, bird’s-eye handkerchief; quoth he: 

“ It ain’t often as I’m caught napping, pal, but 
vhen so, I acknowledges same — humble! . . . To¬ 
night it’s domino Number Five as vas.” 

“You mean Thomas Yaxley, I think.?” 

“ The same! ” nodded Mr. Shrig, preparing to rise. 
“Another minute and ’e ’d have strangled pore Jasper 
— same as ’e strangled Joseph Masson, mistaking same 
for you, pal . . . and Lord knows how man}^ others! ” 

Here he got to his feet and, pistol in fist, stepped back 
into the cottage with David at his heels. 

“What now, Jasper.?” 

“ There’s two or three things as I don’t vant to leave 
behind, pal — my old crab, for vun . . .” 


Mr. Shrig Caught Napping 287 

After some delay the lanthorn was found, shattered 
by the bullet, but the relighted candle showed Mr. 
Shrig’s hat in a dusty corner and the knotted stick 
upon the table, but — the silver-hilted dagger was 
gone. 

Mr. Shrig scratched his head, and after gazing at 
floor and walls and ceiling, began, with David’s ready 
assistance, a thorough and systematic search. High 
and low they sought it, in places likely and unlikely, 
but all without avail . . . the fatal dagger had utterly 
disappeared. Hereupon Mr. Shrig fell to a meditation, 
whistling softly and very dolefully the while. 

“It has been an’ wanished — eh, pal.f”’ said he at 
last. 

“Evidently, Jasper.” 

“Though I don’t see no reason for Yaxley to take 
it.” 

“ Nor I, Jasper.” 

“If ’e did, pal.” 

“To be sure, Jasper.” 

“ Hows’ever, it’s a rum go, pal.” 

“It is, Jasper.” 

“And as for ghost-’unting, we ’ve ’ad about enough 
for vun night, I think — eh?” 

“ Quite enough! ” answered David. 

“ Then I think, p’r’aps, a pint of ^ old ’ afore goin’ 
to bed might do no manner o’ ’arm — how d’you say, 
pal?” 

“The sooner the better, Jasper.” 

So, having extinguished the light, they shut the door 
upon the scene of that murderous struggle and, glan¬ 
cing back at the desolate cottage, David thought it 
more desolate now than ever. 

“ Talking o’ bed,” quoth Mr. Shrig, as they trudged 
away side by side, “do you ever dream — d’ye ever 
have the night-’orse ? ” 

“ Sometimes, Jasper.” 


288 The Loring Mystery 

“ The dream as frets me most, pal, is vun I ’as 
reg’lar arter too much toasted cheese. ... I dream 
as I’m bein’ pur-sooed bj charwomen ... in my 
shirt! Woke up sobbing afore now, I ’ave! But arter 
to-night, pal, I shall dream o’ worse things . . . fin¬ 
gers on my throat! . . . Brickbats, bludgeons and a’ 
occasional chimbley-pot I’m prepared for, pistol-balls 
I can face when needful, but . . . the ’ands of a 
strangler ... ! ” 

Seated cosily in the hospitable shelter of “ The Rear¬ 
ing Horse ” Inn, they quaffed their ale in a good- 
fellowship more intimate than heretofore. 

“ Pal,” said Mr. Shrig, as they lighted their chamber 
candles, “there’s things in this here vorld as can’t be 
spoke, and vun on ’em ’s gratitood. . . . Good night, 
pal David, and don’t go for to worrit about nobody nor 
nothing, for though the law is the law, and dooty 
dooty — friendship is ever and always friendship!” 

Alone in his chamber, David locked the door and, 
seating himself upon the bed, sat a while staring at 
the flame of his candle; at last, from his pocket he 
drew the silver-hilted dagger and scowled down at the 
abhorred thing, his mind perplexed with the old prob¬ 
lem— where should he hide it? 


CHAPTER XLIII 


Which, Having Nothing Whatever to do With 
Mystery or Murder, Should, very Properly, 
BE Skipped 

The estates of Loring being wide, David’s many 
duties often took him far afield, and twice of late, by 
some happy fortune, he had chanced to meet Anticlea 
upon his way, and each time at a certain place where 
a narrow lane joined the highway, an unobtrusive lane 
shady with trees and screened by lofty hedges. 

To-day, having reached this particular place, it was 
but natural that he should rein-up at the corner of this 
leafy track, to glance expectant this way and that, and 
to hearken for the wished-for sound of her horse’s 
cantering hoofs. The sun was hot, even in this leafy 
shade, but for five long minutes David waited with ex¬ 
emplary patience, busied with happy thought: 

How would she greet him? What a fearless horse¬ 
woman she was . . . such gracious ease! She ought 
always to ride — except when she walked, for then 
she walked like a goddess. . . . And surely hair of 
that particular shade was the most beautiful in the 
world . . . ! 

At the end of ten minutes he was shifting in his 
saddle to peer behind him, before, and all around; 
fifteen minutes and he was a gloomy creature with 
sense of wrong and conscious also of a growing thirst; 
another slow-dragging ten minutes of vain expectancy, 
and he was an embittered wretch abandoned of Hope, 
mocked by Fortune and plagued with an intolerable 
thirst. 


290 The Loring Mystery 

Sighing maledictions on his folly, he was about to 
ride on, when borne to his ears came the clank of 
bucket, rattle of chain and creak of winch, speaking of 
cool well and sweet, sparkling water; David turned his 
horse and, riding up the lane, came suddenly upon a 
small inn, or rather hedge-tavern. 

Now, upon a bench before this so sequestered hostel, 
and seeming very much out of place, lounged a slim, 
elegant gentleman with eyes as bright and as hard as 
his coat-buttons, and whiskers as glossy, almost, as his 
boots; an exquisite person whose modish attire and 
supercilious air awoke in David the opposite passions 
of envy and contempt. 

As David drew rein, the gentleman lifted gold- 
rimmed eyeglass and having languidly surveyed him 
and, more particularly, his horse, condescended to ad¬ 
dress him: 

“ Dey-vilish fine bit o’ blood, that! ” 

David, not liking the gentleman’s face, viewed in¬ 
stead the excellent-fitting coat, the flowered waist-coat, 
the snowy buckskins and glossy, betasselled boots, 
feeling his own but clumsy contrivances by compari¬ 
son, and mentally resolving to purchase other and 
better at the first opportunity; from which reflections 
he was aroused by the owner of these desirable gar¬ 
ments, his voice louder and more imperious: 

‘‘D’ye hear me, there? I say I’m admiring that 
brute of yours. What’s his price?” 

“ And I was remarking your boots,” said David, 
“ Are they for sale? ” 

“Sale, sir?” exclaimed the gentleman, goggling, 
“For sale? What the devil! Sale be damned! By 
Heaven, you ’re an impertinent bumpkin! ” 

“And you an obnoxious oaf, sir!” 

“Oaf?” gasped the gentleman, “Ha — by Gad, are 
ye trying to be offensive, then? ” 

“ To the best of my capacity, sir! ” 


Which Should be Skipped 291 

“Are you, egad! Then, by blood, I’ve a cane for 

insolent puppies-” 

“ And I a whip, sir 1 

“Ten thousand devils!” cried the gentleman, leap¬ 
ing to his feet, “ d’ye dare threaten me, fellow? ” 

“Not more than once, sir!” said David, changing 
the whip to his right hand and preparing to dismount. 
But at this juncture, out from the inn pattered a small, 
anxious-faced man who, knuckling an eyebrow to each 
in turn, broke forth into fervent expostulations. 

“ Sirs — O sirs, pray ha’ done now, ha’ done, gents, 
an’ me pore wife in bed expectin’ ’er seventh — an’ me 
wi’ a pain in me ear-’ole — O pray, sirs, ha’ done!” 

At this the gentleman cursed the speaker, scowled 
fiercely at David, took a threatening step towards 
him, seemed to restrain himself by a violent effort and, 
turning on his heel, strode into the inn, his hat cocked 
at ferocious and warlike angle. 

“ Lordy-lord! ” quoth the anxious landlord, looking 
after him, “ Sich a fierce an’ furious gent — and me wi’ 

a pain in me ear-’ole — an’ me pore wife-” 

“You have my sympathy and good wishes,” said 
David, tapping him soothingly with his riding-whip, 
“ Pray bring me a tankard of ale.” 

“ Thank’ee, sir, and yessir! ” sighed the landlord, 
and pattered away, while David turned his horse that 
he might watch the high-road; but it seemed he was to 
be disappointed, Anticlea came not. 

“ Sich a’ owdacious, desp’rit, fierce gent! ” sighed 
the landlord, handing up the foaming tankard, “ ’E’s 
a-setting cursin’ ’eavens ’ard — and in me best parlour, 

too, and me pore wife-” 

“Here’s to her—and the ‘seventh’ !” smiled David, 
“God bless ’em!” So saying, he raised the tankard 
to lip and drank thirstily, tilting his head back and 
back until, above the tankard-rim, his eyes looked up 
into other eyes, great, tearful eyes, wide and dark and 





292 The Loring Mystery 

full of terrified appeal, that stared down at him 
through the small lattice beneath the eaves of the inn; 
even as he stared back, a slim white hand threw wide 
this casement with frantic haste, a beautiful young 
face was out-thrust, and a passionate whisper reached 
him: 

‘‘ O, sir, please ... he has locked me in here and 
I’m afraid! O, come and let me out, I implore . . . 
O sir, I beseech you-” 

David’s draught ended in a choking splutter; he 
coughed and gave the half-emptied tankard to the 
landlord; when he looked up again, the young and 
lovely head had vanished. 

“ Who was that ? ” he demanded. 

“ The young lady, sir,” answered the landlord in 
guarded tones, “ her as come along o’ the fur’ous gent 
in the chaise . . . broke a spring, they did . . . post¬ 
boy ’s been a-mendin’ of it an hour and more . . . 
Young miss ain’t done nothing but sob and moan since 
they come . . . pore young creeter’s afraid of ’im, 
and no wonder . . . And me wi’ a pain in me ear’ole 
and me wife-” 

‘‘ Ha! ” exclaimed David. “ She says the gentleman 
has locked her in. Why.?^” 

“ Sir, I dunno ... ye see, she wep’ — ’eart- 
breakin’ !” 

“ Where is the key ? ” 

“ In the gen’leman’s pocket, sir.” 

“ Have you another.? ” 

“No, sir-” 

“That,” said David, springing from the saddle, “is 
a pity! ” 

“Why, sir.?” 

“ Because I must either force your door or the 
gentleman.” 

“ Lord love us, sir — don’t do that! No vi’lence, sir, 
I begs . . . maybe I can find a key as ’ll fit.” 





Which Should be Skipped 293 

“Do so!” said David grimly; and having secured 
his horse, he followed the small landlord indoors and 
up a somewhat gloomy stair. “ This is the room, I 
think? ” he enquired, pausing at a certain door. 

‘‘Ay, ay—^it be, sir!” twittered the landlord. 
“ But don’t, don’t be ’asty now-” 

“ And locked, sure enough! ” said David, trying it. 

“Ay, sir! But Lordly-lord, don’t go a-breakin’ of 
it down, sir-” 

“ Then bring the key.” 

“ But, sir, wot o’ the gen’leman — so fierce an’ 
fur’ous'-” 

“Damn him! Bring the key.” 

“Yes, sir — O yessir! Only for ’eaven’s sake don’ . 
make no fuss, sir! O, Lordy-lord, wot wi’ my wife an’ 
me ear-’ole . . . O, wot a day!” Uttering the which 
lament the anxious landlord hasted away. 

Left alone David heard a soft knocking on the door 
and an hysterical whispering: 

“ O sir . . . save me, protect me! Don’t, O, don’t 
let him get me back into the chaise-! ” 

“ No,” answered David, “ no! Rest assured, you 
are perfectly safe, mam.” 

Very soon the landlord was back and, finger on lip, 
in stealthy fashion, set key to lock and opened the 
door. 

Upon the threshold stood a girl whose face, though 
disfigured by weeping, was of an extraordinary beauty; 
very young she seemed, and in the wide, truthful eyes, 
in pallid cheek and quivering lip, he read a stainless 
innocence. 

“ Sir — sir,” she whispered, reaching out both hands 
in eager supplication, “ you will take me safe away 
from him? You will take me back to school or my 
dear father? ” 

“ Surely I will! ” he answered, clasping these trem¬ 
ulous hands. 






294 The Loring Mystery 

“And, fur ’eavin’s sake, don’t let the gen’lernan ’ear 
ye, sir!” pleaded the landlord, “A-drinkin’ sherry ’e 
be — in the parlour, and swearin’ fit to make y’r ’air 
stand on end! So creep cautious, sir!” 

Swiftly and silently as might be, they descended the 
creaking stair, but scarcely had they done so, than a 
door was flung suddenly open and the gentleman ap¬ 
peared. For a moment he goggled in speechless amaze¬ 
ment, then, uttering a furious oath, leapt for David’s 
throat and staggered back from the impact of David’s 
ready fist, back into the room whence he had come, 
back until stayed by the table; there leaned he a mo¬ 
ment to clasp damaged eye and glare murder with the 
other, then turning swiftly he reached for the long 
riding-coat that lay across a chair-back, and strove to 
whip a pistol from the pocket, but the lock caught, and 
before he could free it, David closed with him. 

Over went the table with a crash, a chair spun across 
the room, as they reeled and staggered in fierce wrestle; 
then David broke away and, judging his distance, 
smote twice, with stinging left and hard-driving right, 
and down went the gentleman to lie with arms wide- 
tossed and head in a corner. Instantly David caught 
up the riding-coat, and removing the pistols from its 
pockets tossed them out through the open lattice and 
turned to see the terrified girl swaying in the doorway. 

“ O God! ” she cried hysterically, “ Have you killed 
him ? ” 

“No—no, indeed!” panted David and, running 
forward, caught her as she fell. For a moment, clasp¬ 
ing her thus, he strove to calm her until, seeing she had 
swooned, he raised her in his arms, and bore her out Into 
the fragrant, sunny air. Holding her thus in close 
embrace he seated himself on the bench and, espying 
his tankard within reach, caught it up, with some 
desperate notion of using the ale to recover her, since 
he had no water; indeed, he had already moistened her 


Which Should be Skipped 295 

brow and lips when, hearing a sound of horse-hoofs, he 
glanced up to see Anticlea frowning down at him from 
her saddle. 

“ Thank God! ” he exclaimed, in grateful innocence. 

Thank God you are here . . . Look at this poor 
child!” 

‘‘ I see her! ” answered Anticlea, but with look and 
tone wherein was neither sympathy nor kindness: 
“ She seems very young, and — yes . . . very lovely I 
And what beautiful hair! ” 

‘‘ Yes, yes,” said David distressfully, as he stared 
down at the lovely, pale face pillowed on his breast, 
“ but 0 , pray help me, Anticlea — some water! ” 

‘‘ Indeed, sir, but I think the beer will do — if she 
drink it. . . . And take heed to her beautiful tresses 
... so much more becoming than fiery, hateful red! 
. . . And very sure I am that you can contrive much 
better without me . . . she will recover sooner, per¬ 
haps — or, at least, more gracefully — when you are 
alone. Good afternoon, Mr. Hedges; take care of the 
poor young, beautiful creature — though, to be sure, 
I know you will! ” 

So saying, Anticlea cut viciously at her horse until 
he reared, wheeled him on his hind-legs, and galloped 
away, leaving David staring after her in mute but 
angry astonishment. 

Then beholding the face pillowed against him, so 
young, so beautiful and sweetly innocent, David for¬ 
got all else but her helplessness and called lustily 
for water, until out pattered the distracted land¬ 
lord with bowl and towel, himself full of moaning 
lamentation: 

“ O Lord, sir, ’ere ’s the gen’leman ’alf dead and 
a-calling for ’is pistols, and me wi’ me ear-’ole-” 

‘‘Hold the basin!” said David. 

“And me pore wife-” 

“ Give me the towel! ” said David. 




296 The Loring Mystery 

“ Look, sir, the poor young miss be a-comin’ to . . . 
I seen ’er buzzim ’eave-” 

“ Be off! ” said David. 

And presently the girl sighed, moaned, opened 
lovely eyes and, finding herself in David’s arms, 
flushed rosily and hastened to slip from his embrace, 
very full of timid apologies and eager, breathless ex¬ 
pressions of gratitude. 

‘‘And pray,” enquired David, seeing her thus re¬ 
covered, “ who are you, mam, and how came you at the 
mercy of such scoundrelly person?” 

“Because I was too confiding — because I was silly, 
foolish . . . but I was very anxious, he told me my 
father was ill.” 

“ Who is your father, child ? ” 

“He is Doctor Peabody, sir. Perhaps you have 
heard of him?” 

“You mean,” exclaimed David, “Peabody, the 
People’s Practitioner?” 

“ O yes, sir! Everybody knows father, my dear 
child-man, especially the poor folk,” said she proudly. 
“He is so kind and clever and simple! He calls me 
his Salvation ... I, who might have been his sorrow 
and shame but for you! O, how may I ever thank 
you ? ” 

“By saying where you would have me take you,” 
said David, and espying the gentleman’s pistols where 
they had fallen, he went and picked them up. 

“I am at school in Brighthelmstone, sir,” answered 
the girl, eyeing these weapons very much askance. “ I 
am a pupil-teacher. . . . Three weeks ago I met that 
— hateful gentleman, Mr. Eastman. . . . To-day he 
called and told me my beloved father was iU and had 
sent for me, and so, though I felt a little afraid, I 
got into the chaise he had waiting and we drove away 
. . . and then ... I knew my fears of the man were 
justified! Thank Heaven the chaise broke down . , . 



Which Should be Skipped 297 

and you came! And now, sir . . . O pray, however 
am I to get back to school, it is so far from here — 
miles and miles ? ” 

“Well, you spoke of a chaise-” 

“No, no — that belongs to the gentleman.” 

“ Good! He shall lend it you I ” 

“But he may refuse, sir-” 

“No matter! ” 

“And it may not be ready.” 

“We will go and see. But first let me make sure of 
these things!” So saying David crossed to the horse- 
trough and therein dropped the gentleman’s pistols; 
which done, he turned into the stable-yard, the girl 
keeping beside him, and here found a grimy and some¬ 
what profane being, in the leather cap, short coat and 
top-boots of a postboy, busily harnessing his animals 
to a dusty chaise. 

“ All right, sir, all right! ” he cried. “ Ready for you 
in fi’ minutes — and dang all, I says! ” 

“Very good!” answered David, “the sooner we 
start the better, for we must reach Brighthelmstone 
before dark.” 

At this the Postboy looked up to stare at David with 
very round eyes and mouth agape: 

“But — but blow me,” he stammered, “you ain’t 
my gent! ” 

“ But this is your lady, I think.” 

“Werry true, sir — but-” 

And we are going to take her back to Brighthelm¬ 
stone.” 

“ Are we, sir? But wot o’ my gent? ” 

“He will remain here.” 

“ O will ’e, sir? I’d like to ’ear wot ’e’s got to say 
to that! ” 

“ Why, then, go and tell him what I say and you ’ll 
surely hear him to very excellent advantage — only 
hurry! ” Hereupon, leaving his horses in charge 





298 The Loring Mystery 

of an ostler, the Postboy touched his cap and entered 
the inn forthwith . . . whence, after a brief space, 
issued a sudden, rageful roar, and thereafter the Post¬ 
boy himself, his eyes rounder than ever. 

“Well.J^” enquired David, smiling a little grimly. 

“ Werry well indeed, sir! ” nodded the Postboy, “ I 
never ’eard a gen’leman say so much in one minute nor 
more to the p’int in all my days — and I’ve ’eard a 
few.” 

“ Then suppose you drive us back.? ” 

“Ay, sir . . . but who’s to pay — thirty shillin’s 
the figure.?” 

“Here’s your money!” said David, counting the 
sum into the Postboy’s grimy palm. “ And now let us 
be moving.” 

“Werry good, sir!” 

And so, having aided the girl into the chaise, David 
mounted his horse and away they went, leaving the 
gentleman (anything but languid now, and with a 
swollen eye) to flourish futile cane and roar unheard 
anathemas after them. 


CHAPTER XLIV 

Which Telleth Somewhat of “ Lovers’ Meetings ” 

They had travelled some mile or so along the high- 
road when David beheld, far before them, a swirl of 
dust that drew rapidly nearer and nearer until, amid 
this rolling cloud, appeared a horseman, a wild-eyed, 
desperate-looking man who galloped a foam-spattered 
animal in headlong career. 

“ Pull over! ” he shouted furiously, for David, recog¬ 
nising this desperate rider, had thrown out an arm to 
stay him. “Out o’ my way — pull over or, by God, 
I ’ll ride ye down! ” 

“Father . . . O, father!” cried a voice, and out 
from chaise-window came a hand, an arm, a lovely, 
eager face, at sight of which the horseman checked his 
furious career. 

“Salvation!” he cried, “O, Sally!” and leaping 
from his horse he ran, stumbling, but with arms 
reached out in joyous welcome. 

Then, wheeling his horse, David rode away, leaving 
them to each other. 

But presently, as he cantered between the blooming 
hedgerows, he was aware of shouts behind him and 
clattering hoofs, and turning his head, espied Mr. 
Peabody in hot pursuit. 

“Ha, and will ye run off, sir? ” cried the Poor Per¬ 
son’s Practitioner, riding at him with right hand out¬ 
stretched. “Will ye run off and defraud me of the 
right, the privilege, of speaking my gratitude? How 
was I to recognise you in your new habit and myself so 
distraught? However! God bless ye, friend — you 


300 The Loring Mystery 

that are the salvation of my Salvation! Ay, ay — 
she’s told me how you thrashed that damned and thrice- 
accursed scoundrel . . . and here come I, eager to 
speak my — our — gratitude . . . and I cannot . . . 
there are no words . . . O, give me your hand, sir! 
. . . Also I owe you thirty shillings — behold it, sir! ” 

“ Tush! ” exclaimed David. 

“ Tush, but take it, friend! ” And Mr. Peabody 
thrust the money upon him. ‘‘And now,” continued 
Mr. Peabody, as their hands met, “you are to come 
with us, nay, sir, you must—Sally says so! She tells me 
she does n’t even know your name and, for that matter, 
neither do I — at least, I am given to understand that 
your Christian name is David.” 

“ Then, sir, pray call me so. But how did you learn 
this ? ” 

“From one Bowker—Benjamin Bowker, a prisoner 
in the pestilential lock-up at Lewes; he described you 
very accurately as I remembered you first, your head in 
a bandage.” 

“ Poor Ben Bowker, I must see him! ” said David. 

“Then come with me, sir, and I will bring you to 
him. Moreover, he wrote you a letter; I have it here! ” 

So while David turned his horse, Mr. Peabody 
unbuttoned dusty coat and drew thence the letter in 
question; then, walking their horses side by side, David 
opened the missive and in characters scrawled with 
much painful care read this: 

Dear Friend 

They have nabbed me at last for a job as I never done 
which comes hard-like. So here I lays a sick man and like 
to come out feet first and stiff which don’t signify for life 
has never brought me no luck yet and I’m ready to be done 
with it for good. Only there’s my little Nan — which do 
come mortal hard-like her to be alive and me to have to go 
without finding of her after all these long years chum. So I 
am a-sending you her ring her wedding-ring as she never 


“Lovers’ Meetings” 301 

wore which I have carried all these years round my neck 
chum. If you should ever chance to find her give it her 
and say Ben was true living and will be true dead. Like¬ 
wise there’s a matter of two hundred pound in Lewes 
bank for her if you find her if not keep it friend and think 
sometimes of 

Ben Bowker. 

P.S. On second thoughts failing my Nan you might 
share the money with her old mother and oblige 

Yours respectfully 

B. B.” 

Having perused this letter, David folded it away 
with gentle fingers, and took the ring Mr. Peabody 
held out towards him; a plain gold circlet somewhat 
the worse for wear, its pristine brightness long since 
dimmed. And staring down at this small, battered 
thing which Ben Bowker had borne and treasured 
through the long bitter years of his servitude — read¬ 
ing in this ring something of the tragedy and heart¬ 
break of these two ruined lives, David blinked suddenly 
and bowed his head above it. 

‘‘ Ay,” nodded Mr. Peabody, “ a tragical tale! 
Poor Ben Bowker. However!” 

“ And now he is very ill, it seems! ” said David, 
stowing the ring carefully away. 

Was ! ” corrected the People’s Practitioner, ‘‘ The 
verb is in the past tense, David, I rejoice to say . . . 
I will call you David, if I may? ” 

O pray do! And Bowker is better?” 

‘‘He is, thanks to the P.P.P.’s unfailing specifics! 

. . . And gaol-fever, mark ye, is a disease that few 
of your regular practitioners trouble about, for pris¬ 
oners are only prisoners, and the sooner done with the 
better. And yet prisoners are human — ay, even the 
worst of ’em! Hence I quack among ’em when needful 
and to good purpose, yes—with reasonable success! 
However! ” 



302 The Loring Mystery 

“ Mr. Peabody, I begin to appreciate that you 
are-” 

“Merely the Poor Persons’ Practitioner, sir, with a 
boundless — ay, a limitless practice. You will come 
and see Bowker, I think.?” 

“ Why, surely! Is he still in gaol.? ” 

“He was liberated yesterday, sir, and is now at 
‘ The Harbour ’ — with a capital aitch, if you please! ” 

“ ‘ Harbour ’ ? ” repeated David, puzzled. 

“My recently acquired cottage, sir — that is to say, 
ours, hers—my Salvation’s . . . just a mile this side 
Lewes. And pray not a word to her, David! ’Tis a 
cottage she hath often admired and dreamed of our 
possessing some day — and that day is to-day , . . 
New-painted, new-whitewashed, new-thatched — a sur¬ 
prise for my Sally. And I call it ‘ The Harbour ’ be¬ 
cause I have been shipwrecked, have known the horror 
of the abysmal deeps . . . but, thanks to my pure, 
sweet Sally, have won to a secure haven at last 1 How¬ 
ever! . . . But see, she has stopped the chaise, let us 
hasten.” 

Having overtaken the vehicle, they rode on in com¬ 
pany, silent for the most part, since each was busied 
with his thoughts, until, leaving the high-road, Mr. 
Peabody swung off at right angles into a grassy by¬ 
lane, and down this lane David saw Anticlea riding 
towards them at a gentle amble, head a-droop like one 
lost in thought. But no sooner did she catch sight of 
David and his companions than she frowned, whipped 
her steed to a gallop and flashed by them, all in a 
moment. 

“ Oho! ” quoth Mr. Peabody, turning to glance after 
her. “The proud lady of Loring Wood, I think.?” 

“Yes,” said David, frowning in his turn. “May I 
ask you to wait here a while.? You shall not be kept 
long,” and reining about he set off in pursuit. 

Reaching the high-road he saw Anticlea riding 



“Lovers’ Meetings” 303 

slowly some half-mile ahead, and touching his horse 
with the whip, he broke into a canter, whereupon An- 
ticlea immediately urged her horse to a gallop; in went 
David’s spurs, his powerful animal bounded forward, 
but hard as he rode, Anticlea maintained her lead, 
swaying gracefully to every stride of her raking sorrel 
and, be sure, never once deigning a backward glance. 
David plied his spurs and Anticlea her whip, and thus 
they raced a while until, either because she wearied 
of it, or thought she had tried him sufficiently, or 
merely because she was a woman, she suffered herself 
to be overtaken and, reining her horse to a canter, 
was prepared to greet her determined pursuer with 
a smile, when she was aware of a somewhat dusty 
countenance frowning at her beneath a very dusty hat, 
and a masterful hand which, seizing her horse’s snaffle, 
brought him to a sudden standstill. Instantly her 
smile vanished, and as David frowned at her, she 
frowned back at him. 

“ What is the meaning of this ? ” she challenged. 
‘‘How dare you stop me!” 

“I wish you to come back and meet my friends,” 
he answered, his soft drawl more pronounced than 
usual. 

“And I refuse!” 

“And,” he continued gently, “I promised we would 
not keep them waiting long-” 

“Loose my horse! Let me pass!” 

“No, mam!” 

Anticlea raised her whip threateningly, whereat 
David laughed and (wise for once) leaned near sud¬ 
denly, clasped compelling arm about her waist and, 
crushing her to him, kissed her (despite the fidgeting 
of their horses, which somewhat marred his aim). 
Thus his first kiss lighted upon her ear, his second 
upon her cheek, but his third full upon her pouting, 
rosy lips. 



304 The Loring Mystery 

And she meekly suffered this caress, all unresisting 
— perhaps because she felt she knew struggling would 
be vain, or a little dangerous, or perhaps because- 

Howbeit, for a long moment she lay submissive in 
his embrace until David felt her lips quiver responsive 
under his, until she sighed and murmured plaintively 
and raised her whip-hand (but wondrous gently), a 
pleading hand which, touching his cheek, repelled yet 
caressed him, both at once. 

So David freed her, and she, gathering loosened 
reins, looked at her horse’s twitching ears, the dusty 
road, the green hedgerows — at anything but David. 

“You — are — very sudden!” said she at last, a 
little breathlessly. 

“ And you,” he answered, “ are very beautiful with 
that gentle look in your dear eyes.” 

At this she laughed happily, and glancing at him 
from the corners of these same eyes, flushed to see his 
adoring look. 

“And where did you leave your friends? ” she ques¬ 
tioned in her soft, sweet voice. 

“ Heavens — I had forgotten them! ” he exclaimed. 

“ O, David 1 ” said she reproachfully. “ And you 
promised not to keep them waiting I ” 

“Then you’ll come back with me, Anticlea?” 

“ Of course! ” she smiled. And so they presently 
rode back together. 

Now, as they went David told her something of Ben 
Bowker’s history, and who so tenderly sympathetic as 
Anticlea, insomuch that, checking their horses to a 
walk, he read to her Ben’s letter, and seeing the tears 
in her eyes would have kissed them away but that she 
showed him the People’s Practitioner trotting towards 
them astride his nag. 

Mr. Peabody, having been duly presented, bowed 
with that easy, dignified courtesy which only birth and 
breeding can bestow. Learning, as they rode on to- 



“Lovers’ Meetings” 305 

gether, that Anticlea knew nothing of his Sally’s 
rescue, he launched forthwith into a vivid account of 
the whole affair, dwelling with unction upon the 
knocking-down of the would-be ravisher: “And I only 
wish,” he ended, “I do most heartily wish I had been 
there to see the villain tumble! ” 

And thus at last they reached again that grassy lane 
where Sally was busy gathering honeysuckle, watched 
by a postboy who alternately yawned and picked his 
teeth with a straw. 

“ Madam,” said Mr. Peabody, as they halted, “ here 
is my Salvation — Sally, I present you to Mistress 
Anticlea Loring-” 

“ No! ” said Anticlea, head proudly up-flung, “ I 
am no Loring, thank Heaven ... I am nobody’s 
child, but they tell me my mother’s name was-Benton.” 

Looking up, Sally beheld a tall, handsome creature 
whose prideful bearing was softened by eyes that 
viewed her with such wistful yearnin,g; looking down, 
Anticlea saw a face whose gentle beauty was the more 
lovely by the reason of its quick, intuitive sympathy 
and understanding. 

So for a moment they viewed each other with femi¬ 
nine eyes keenly critical; then Sally smiled and took 
a shy step forward, and in that moment Anticlea the 
impetuous was out of the saddle and had met her with 
both hands outstretched. 

“ Come,” said Mr. Peabody, dismounting, “ they 
won’t miss us for a moment. Leave our horses with 
the Postboy.” So saying he led David a little farther 
up the lane, and then halted suddenly to point: “ The 
Harbour!” he announced in a hoarse whisper. 

At first David could see no more than a very lofty 
hedge wherein was set a very small green gate; but 
drawing nearer he made out a roomy cottage seated 
snugly behind this hedge, surely the neatest, cosiest of 
cottages brave with paint and whitewash and golden 



3 o6 The Loring Mystery 

thatch, its latticed casements twinkling demurely be¬ 
neath the shady eaves of steep-pitched roof. 

“What d’ye think of it.^” enquired Mr. Peabody a 
little anxiously, “No-—what will she think of it.?’ 
However! Here she comes, let’s ask her.” As he 
spoke Sally came towards them, deep in conversation 
with Anticlea, but beholding the cottage with its 
bravery of new thatch, paint, and whitewash, she 
halted in sudden dismay: 

“ Why, father,” she exclaimed, “ O sir, ’t is the dear 
old place we have dreamed of so often I ... 0? father 
— someone must have bought it at last I ” 

“ Someone has, my love. D’ye like it.?’ ” 

“You know how I love it,” she sighed, "But ... if 
it belongs to someone else — some stranger . . .” Mr. 
Peabody chuckled. “Father.?”’ she cried breathlessly, 
“ O, father ... do you mean-.?’ ” 

“Ay, I do. Salvation! I mean I have bought it. 
’Tis ours, child, yours , . . your very own ...” 

“ 0, father . . . my dear, wonderful child 1 ” and 
turning, she caught the People’s Practitioner in her 
arms and hugged him, her flushed cheek against his 
dusty coat. 

“But . . . won’t you open the gate, Sally.?”’ he 
questioned a little hoarsely, “ open the gate and bid 
us in.?’ ” 

And indeed with what a sweet, shy grace she wel¬ 
comed them to this the first true home she had ever 
known; how quick her bright eyes to heed the loving 
care which had gone to its adornment, how ready her 
tongue to voice her gratitude. 

“’Tis all just as we used to dream it long ago — 
only better! ” she sighed, in an ecstasy. 

“ Then suppose,” suggested Mr. Peabody, his round 
face beaming, his eyes a little brighter than usual be¬ 
hind their large spectacles, “ suppose you step inside, 
my love, and brew us some tea.?’ ” 



“Lovers’ Meetings” 


307 

“Tea!” repeated Sally, with a little joyous scream. 
“ Do you mean it is furnished . . . ready to live 
in-? ” 

“ Go and see, my dear.” 

“ O, come! ” cried the girl, and catching Anticlea by 
the hand they vanished into the cottage together. 

“And now,” said Mr. Peabody, slipping his arm in 
David’s, “ let us find the unfortunate Bowker.” 

Behind the cottage was a large and goodly orchard, 
and here, in a high-backed elbow-chair, sat Ben 
Bowker, his grizzled head bowed in slumber, his square 
face paler and more grim and lined than ever. 

“ Do not let us wake him,” said David, turning 
away. “He is alive, thanks to you, but now is my 
turn. Lend me the chaise and I will bring someone 
who shall avail him more than all your specifics-” 

“Aha — a woman, of course. Go fetch her, David, 
whoever she be. This is ‘ The Harbour ’ — with a 
capital aitch. Go fetch her I ” 

“ Thank you,” answered David, hesitating, “ but I 
think perhaps, under the circumstances, it were better 
someone came with me . . .” 

“ Much better! ” nodded Mr. Peabody, “ I ’ll send 
her to you.” And away he went, chuckling. 

Thus very soon came Anticlea to find David giving 
directions to the Postboy. 

“Where are you taking me.?” she questioned, as the 
chaise swung out into the high-road. 

“ To a little huckster’s shop in Lewes, just beyond the 
bridge, name of Martin ... to Nancy. I want you to 
tell her Ben Bowker is found ... is waiting for her.” 

“O, David!” 

“And to give her this ring, it is her wedding-ring — 
the ring she never wore, the ring Bowker has carried 
for her sake all these weary years . . .” 

So Anticlea took the small, battered thing and sat 
looking down at it very wistfully. 




3 o8 The Loring Mystery 

“ Some day, Anticlea, I shall give you such a ring! 
When shall it be? When will you marry me? ” 

“ 0 David,” she answered in soft, weeping voice, 
‘^remember my hateful red hair-” 

“ I love it! ” he answered, and kissed it. 

‘‘ So horrible and fiery, David! And I am like it 
-fierce and passionate, my dear . . 

“I love you! ” he answered, and kissed her cheek. 

“But I am so sudden in my angers, David ... so 
wild — it frightens me sometimes! O, how may I 
marry you, David—you so good, so strong and gentle, 
and I so-” 

David kissed her mouth. 

It was something over a mile to Lewes, and surely 
never was distance covered so rapidly; at least so said 
David and so thought Anticlea, for they had turned 
into the High Street and David was still asking “ The 
Question ” when the chaise pulled up before a small 
shop whose dingy sign bore the name “ Martin.” 

Entering the dark little shop, they beheld a small 
motherly woman who, recognising them for scions of 
“ The Quality ”, curtseyed and begged to know their 
pleasure. 

“ If you are Mrs. Martin,” said David, “ we are here 
for . . . your daughter Nancy.” 

“ O, sir! ” exclaimed the little woman in sudden 
trepidation, wringing her hands distressfully, “Wot 

for, please? My Nancy bean’t strong, sir, and-” 

But leaning forward, Anticlea clasped these tremulous 
hands and, smiling into the old creature’s troubled eyes 
and whispering certain words, showed her the ring: 

“ O, my lady ... ! ” exclaimed the little old 
woman, “ O, I do thank the good Lord! This be the 
physic shall cure my Nan! O come your ways, lady 
— come and tell my Nancy.” 

So Anticlea followed whither she was led, leaving 
David alone; but very soon she was back again with 






“Lovers’ Meetings” 309 

Nancy, an eager, trembling creature who curtseyed to 
David with a broken murmur of thanks and followed 
Anticlea out to the chaise. 

And now the Postboy cracked his whip and away 
they went at a gallop; yet, fast though they travelled, 
surely never seemed mile so long, to Nancy at least, 
who sat dumb and rigid, her wide gaze always bent 
yearningly upon the road before them. 

But all journeys end soon or late, and at last they 
turned off into the grassy lane. Then, all at once, 
Nancy was upon her feet, and before the chaise could 
stop had sprung forth, to stand a moment staring at 
the grim-faced man with grey hair and lined features 
who limped slowly towards her; then, uttering a sudden 
cry, she ran forward to throw herself upon her knees 
before this man, with yearning arms reached up to 
him. 

‘‘Ben!” she sobbed, “ O, Ben . . . my dear — my 
dear . , . forgive me I ” 

And Ben Bowker, unheeding staring Postboy and 
snorting horses and all else in the world, caught those 
supplicating hands in his, and sinking upon his knees, 
even as she, drew her close within his embrace: 

“ Why, Nan I ” said he. “ My little Nan — at last! ” 


CHAPTER XLV 

Her Grace Dissertates on Mr. Shrig’s Methods 

“ David Hedges,” quoth the Duchess, beckoning 
imperiously, “ come and sit you here! ” 

She was enshrined in solitary state upon one of the 
benches before “The Rearing Horse” (to the no small 
consternation of its smock-frocked frequenters), for, 
though her very small feet scarcely reached earth, she 
nevertheless contrived to look the very great lady that 
she was: “ David Hedges,” said she, “ I have awaited- 
you here some time; your duties keep you late, it 
seems ? ” 

David bowed. 

“ And Anticlea also! ” 

David bowed a trifle lower. 

“ Hum! ” quoth the Duchess. “ That settles it! 
The sooner I take her to London, the better! Do not 
glare, Mr. Meadow, or attempt to look haughty; re¬ 
member your plough, sir, and — sit down, do I ” 

David obeyed, though a trifle stiff in the back about 
it. 

“You are acquainted with that Shrig person, I 
think?” 

“ He is my friend, mam.” 

“A Bow Street person?” Her Grace shivered with 
a sound which, in any lady less great, might have been 
termed a sniff. “Your friend, indeed, sir?” 

“ Truly, mam, for he was a friend to me in my 
need! ” 

“Very well, sir. Then perhaps you can tell me 
what he means by persecuting poor Belinda? ” 


Mr. Shrig’s Methods 311 

“Persecuting her, mam?” 

“ Well, perhaps the word is extreme . . . but he has 
met her frequently of late on her errands of mercy — 
she is for ever ministering to some needy soul . . . 
the man has been seen carrying her basket — the thing 
has been remarked!” 

“ Astonishing! ” exclaimed David. 

“Not in the least, sir! The man, of course, hath 
some purpose to serve, the question is — what ? ” 

“ Heaven knows, mam! ” 

“Doubtless, sir — but do you?” 

“No, lady!” 

“Have you any suggestion to offer? Can you 
hazard a guess?” 

“None, mam.” 

“Hum! You are a somewhat obtuse young man, I 
think! Yesterday I happened to step into the church 
yonder, Belinda is frequently there, and sure enough 
I found her listening entranced to this Shrig person. 

. . . He was talking of birds, sir.” 

“ Birds ? ” repeated David. 

“He was describing to the poor little soul a piping 
bullfinch he kept at home in a wicker cage which he 
had taught to whistle ‘ Sally in our Alley ’ — I mean 
the bullfinch, of course. Did you know he was a bird- 
fancier? ” 

“No, mam, and why in the world he should-” 

“ Because poor Belinda dotes on birds and all gentle, 
small creatures like herself, of course.” 

“Why do you call her ‘poor,’ mam?” 

“Because, being a woman, she was bom to suffer 
. . . but Fate, it seems, preordained Belinda to endure 
more than her share — she is altogether too gentle, 
too shy, too confiding for this hard, cynical world — 
and she has suffered accordingly, gentle soul. I have 
only learned to really know her of late . . . and to 
know her is to love her . . .” 



The Loring Mystery 


312 

“Yes, indeed, mam-” 

“Pray do not interrupt! Now as to this Shrig man 
— he piques my curiosity! Being his friend, what do 
you know of him ? ” 

“ That he is loyal to friendship and duty.” 

“Tush! What more, sir?” 

“Nothing, lady,” answered David, shaking his head. 

“ Then you are a very unobservant young man, 
Mr. Fields! Listen to me! First, this Police Person 
seems everything that he is not, and, not being what 
he seems, seems perfectly natural ... I hope I am 
clear? ” 

“Ye-e-s,” said David, a little dubiously. 

“ Second: he is here to investigate a • . . certain 
occurrence, and proceeds to do it by apparently doing 
nothing at all in the most determined manner . . . 
And yet — Eustace Maulverer is worrying himself to 
skin and bone! Why? . , . Then, again, this Shrig 
friend of yours, whom you don’t seem to know, is a 
ubiquitous creature — he is here, he is there, and then, 
again, he is not — and always when least expected! 
Last night, for instance, just before twelve o’clock, I 
happened to go downstairs to the library for my 
Thomson’s ‘ Seasons ’ — I always read the ‘ Seasons ’ 
when I cannot sleep, I find them soothing—and as I 
went downstairs whom should I meet but Mr. Shrig 
coming up, silent as a shadow . . .” 

“Good heaven!” exclaimed David. “But, mam, he 
and I retired together last night, I heard him shut 
and lock his bedroom door-” 

“To be sure, sir! And the moment you were safely 
in bed, he was out and away, of course — and appeared 
to me out of the midnight shadows of Loring Chase. 
Had I been an ordinary female I should have screamed 
and promptly swooned away; as it was, I sat down 
upon the stairs and demanded an explanation forth¬ 
with. He informed me there was no window a cracks- 





Mr. Shrig’s Methods 313 

man or law officer who knew his profession could not 
open. . . , Indeed, he told me many things; and find¬ 
ing him interesting and the stairs being draughty, we 
descended to the parlour and partook of sherry and 
biscuits. . . . Among other things he informed me he 
expected to lay the ghost finally and clear up the 
Loring Mystery — to-night.” 

“ To-night? ” repeated David, starting. 

“Precisely, Mr. Hedgerow, though you need not 
become excited and raise your voice—as he did.” 

“ How, mam ? Jasper Shrig — excited ? ” 

“Indeed, sir, and spoke so loud I was apprehensive 
he would wake someone. . . . At last, we having 
finished the sherry and most of the biscuits, I bade 
him good-night and left him to his ghostly researches 
— and reaching my chamber door, surprised poor 
Eustace on the landing as pallid as a ghost himself.” 

“ To-night! ” repeated David. 

“Tut, tut—don’t look so tragic, David, ’twill be as 
well, perhaps, to have the hateful matter cleared up,” 
said the Duchess, rising. “Come, sir, you shall give 
me your arm along the road.” 

As they walked. Her Grace talked of many things, 
but David paid scant heed, even when she spoke of her 
own and Anticlea’s imminent departure for London; 
insomuch that, reaching the gates of Loring Chase, 
she turned and left him abruptly with this Parthian 
shaft: 

“ Truly I think you are a very dull young man, Mr. 
Woods! ” 

Left alone, David wandered on, lost in uneasy specu¬ 
lation, for if the Loring Mystery were indeed solved 
to-night . . . ? Uneasiness grew to anxiety, and this, 
in turn, to sick apprehension. He piust see Jasper at 
once! Ay, but where to find him? 

Reaching that narrow by-lane beyond the village 
where stood Thomas Yaxley’s cottage, David halted 


314 The Loring Mystery 

undecidedly; but it seemed that Fortune favoured him, 
for as he stood thus, chin in hand, he heard a murmur 
of voices and, glancing up, espied Mr. Shrig some dis¬ 
tance up this lane in earnest converse with three 
strange, formidable-looking men. 

Thither strode David, so fast that he was near 
enough to hear Mr. Shrig’s final words ere the three 
strangers touched their hats and took themselves off, 
leaving Mr. Shrig to advance towards David, beaming 
in cheery welcome. 

“Who were those fellows, Jasper.?^” 

“ Just three lads o’ mine, pal. And how goes it? ” 
“What did you mean by bidding them be on their 
posts at ten o’clock to-night ? ” 

“ Jest a little bit o’ business, pal-” 

“Business, Jasper? Ay, I hear you mean to clear 
up the Loring Mystery to-night ? ” 

“ I told ye that last evening, pal.” 

“No, you only hoped to do so, then! Are you so 
sure at last, Jasper? O, man, are you quite 
sure-? ” 

“ And sarten, pal. The six is vun I ” 

“And your . . . your proofs, Jasper?” 

“ Well, seein’ as you’ve took ’em, pal, I ’ll ’ave to 

make shift as best I may-” 

“Do you expect to . . . arrest . . . anyone to¬ 
night, Jasper ? ” 

“Wh34 pal, since you ax me I’ll answer you plain 
and p’inted;—I ain’t so sure . . . and vot’s more I 
don’t expect — hullo I ” 

From somewhere close by rose sudden sounds of 
infantile woe, and out from the hedge toddled a very 
small, golden-headed imp whose rosy face, though 
happily begrimed, was just now convulsed with tearful, 
wailing grieh 

“ Hullo, my duck, and vot’s the trouble ? ” enquired 
Mr. Shrig, stooping to pat the small tousled head;., 

I 







Mr. Shrig’s Methods 315 

whereat the child ceased his wailing to suck at grimy 
thumb and survey his questioner with solemn, apprais¬ 
ing eyes; which scrutiny proving satisfactory, he took 
possession of Mr. Shrig’s thick and hairy forefinger 
and smiled. 

“ Don wanth Dimmy! ” he announced, withdrawing 
moist thumb for the purpose. 

“Is that so, duck?” answered Mr. Shrig, stroking 
his chin. “ I don’t eggsackly tvig your lingo, but us ’ll 
see ye right, my son ... I s’pose you don’t ’appen 
to know ’is lordship, pal? ” 

“ No,” answered David, stooping to touch the child’s 
soft cheek. 

“ She’d know, and you can lay to that! ” said Mr. 
Shrig. 

“Who, Jasper?” 

“Number Vun, pal — Miss Belindy . . . Let’s see,” 
said he, consulting massive silver watch, “ six forty- 
five! She’ll be sittin’ along o’ Dame Bowden now, 
unless she’s a-readin’ to Mrs. March’s little gal, other¬ 
wise she’ll be talkin’ to old dole-” 

“ And pray how do you know all this? ” 

“ Obserwation, pal-” 

“ You mean spying 1 ” 

“Do I, pal? Well, p’r’aps I do, they’re much of a 
muchness, d’ye see.” 

“You have been seen carrying her basket . . 

“Werry true!” nodded Mr. Shrig, “An’ precious 
’eavy it were — full o’ small comforts for her old 
villagers.” 

“You contrive to worm yourself into her good 
graces-” 

“Vorm, eh?” quoth Mr. Shrig reflectively. “Vorm, 
is it ? ” 

“Were you ever a bird-fancier?” 

“Ah! I fancies ’em all — ’specially when they 
vistles. But that ’ere vorm, now-” 






3 i6 The Loring Mystery 

“Did you ever own a piping bullfinch?” 

“No. But then I once knowed a cove as did. . . . 
An’ talkin’ o’ that theer vord ‘ vorm ’-” 

“ And by such means you set yourself to win this 
lady’s confidence, hoping through her simplicity to 
trap her into some admission damaging to ... to 
one she loves-” 

“ Meaning one as you love, pal—’er. Number Two — 
us-knows-’oo! But ’arking back to that theer vord 
‘ vorm ’— though I ain’t by natur’ a squeamish cove, 
still I wenters to think as ‘vorm,’ ’twixt pals, is com¬ 
ing it a bit strongish-like! ” Here Mr. Shrig paused 
to glance down at their toddling companion who still 
held him fast by the finger. 

“Are ye tired, my duck?” he enquired. The small 
head nodded vigorously, whereupon Mr. Shrig stooped 
and swung the child to broad shoulder; perched thus 
aloft, he clutched Mr. Shrig’s bull-neck in chubby arm, 
kicked diminutive heels and gurgled ecstatic. 

“ Talkin’ o’ Number Vun, pal, yonder she comes! ” 

They were close upon the village by now and, glanc¬ 
ing about, David espied Miss Belinda approaching, 
a large, empty basket upon her arm. 

She greeted them with her gentle smile and reached 
up slim hand to caress the child, who beamed and 
crowed in welcome: 

“ Why, ’t is little John Crook,” said she. “ His poor 
mother will be so relieved, John is always getting lost. 
You seem very fond of children, Mr. Shrig!” 

“Fond ain’t the vord, mam! If I’d ’appened to be 
blessed vith a little lamb like Johnny ’ere, I dunno as 
I vouldn’t qvit the law an’ take up vith a kinder per- 
fession.” 

“And John seems to love you!” 

“ That ’e do, mam! Bless ’is little ’eart an’ limbs! ” 

“ Then indeed, sir, if children love you I’m sure you 
are a very kind — a very good man.” 




Mr. Shrig’s Methods 317 

Mr. Shrig glanced furtively at David’s scowling face 
and coughed. 

“Why, as to that, mam,” he answered, a little dif¬ 
fidently, “ if I ain’t quite as good as I should ought 
to be, I’m better than I might be, p’r’aps — though 
that ain’t nothing to brag about, neether, seeing as I 
ain’t no better than I am, d’ye see.” 

“ But I’m sure you must be a very gentle, kind man 

in spite of your dreadful trade-” 

“ Pray sulfer me to take your basket. Miss Belinda,” 
said David. 

“ Thank you, sir,” she smiled, as he took it from her 

arm, “ though, indeed, I am quite used to it-” 

“Dreadful, mam?” quoth Mr. Shrig. “Ah, to be 
sure, I deals in crime, mam, sooicide, or—as you 
might say — feller-de-see, also the Capital Act, or — 
as you might put it—Murder. Yes, crimes is meat 
an’ drink to me, mam, though I ’ll own they ain’t pleas¬ 
ant — ’specially murder! ” 

“ May I not see you as far as Loring Chase, 
lady ? ” David enquired desperately. 

“Thank you, Mr. David, not until we have taken little 
John safe home . . . Murder!” she repeated, with a 
gentle sigh. “ O, surely it is a dreadful thing that may 
only win forgiveness through Love made perfect . . . 
For love that is not of self may banish all hatred, every 
fear and sorrow — may wash away every tear, and 
make the heart young again . . . because such love is 
of the Infinite, which is God. You believe in God, sir? ” 
Mr. Shrig walked some distance, seeming to debate 
the question within himself, but presently, meeting the 
gentle eyes raised to his own in such mute though 
anxious questioning? he answered in voice so very dif¬ 
ferent to his usual gruff, hearty tone, that David 
glanced at him in surprise: 

“Yes, lady — sometimes . . . when I talks wi’werry 
young children or . . . angels.” 




3 i8 The Loring Mystery 

‘‘ I too love children,” she nodded, “ and I have 
dreamed of angels. To dream is sometimes better — O, 
much better than to live . . . Sometimes I h;ave 
dreamed myself dead and perfected . . . O, surely it 
will be glorious to be dead, to be lifted by kind Death 
up to the completer living.” 

As she spoke Miss Belinda raised her eyes to the 
blue of the cloudless sky and walked thus a while like 
one in an ecstasy; then she sighed deeply and stopped 
at the gate of a trim cottage with a garden before it 
gay with flowers. 

‘‘This is where little John lives,” said she, “and 
there is Jim Crook, little John’s father! ” 

Sure enough down narrow garden path the Carrier 
was hurrying to meet them, a smart, upstanding figure, 
tight and sailor-like, from neatly-trimmed whiskers to 
polished boots and gaiters. 

“Why, John, y’ young lubber!” he exclaimed joy¬ 
fully, shaking brawny fist in the begrimed and chubby 
face of his offspring, who promptly shrieked with 
rapture. “ God bless ye. Miss B’lindy, mam,” said 
the Carrier gratefully, “might ha’ knowed you ’d ha’ 
convoyed ’im safe . . . my wife’s that worrited about 
’im, and me only just in from my round. Thank’ee 
likewise, Mr. Shrig, sir . . . gimme the young wagga- 
bone! My best respects, gen’leman ! ” 

So saying, the Carrier tucked his son beneath one 
arm, made a leg to Miss Belinda, shook hands with 
David and Mr. Shrig, and hurried off triumphant, his 
small son kicking plump legs and gurgling rapturously. 

“And now, mam,” said Mr. Shrig, “us will see ye 
on your way, if agreeable-” 

“ Perhaps you would prefer to be alone. Miss 
Belinda?” David suggested. 

“O no, no—pray come,” she smiled. “Tell me, 
Mr. Shrig, shall you stay in Loring much longer?” 
she enquired as they walked on together. 



Mr. Shrig’s Methods 319 

“ That depends on . . . the ghost, mam.” 

“Ah, the ghost!” she sighed, “I used not to be¬ 
lieve in such—once.” 

“But you do — now, mam—eh?” 

“ I believe that unhappy souls may come back some¬ 
times . . . indeed, I know! ” 

“You’ve never ackchally seen this here ghost, ’ave 
you, mam? ” 

“Alas! — not yet,” she answered sadly. “It seems 
I am too unworthy—but I hope to . . . some day.” 

“Do you, mam?” 

“O yes—^yes! I am hoping, living for that! Do 
you believe in ghosts, Mr. Shrig? ” 

“Well, mam, I’m expecting to speak wi’ this ’ere 
ghost-” 

“To speak?” she exclaimed, clasping her hands 
with a trembling eagerness. “ O, when? . . . Where, 
sir — I beseech you, where? . . . You will suffer me 
to be with you, sir—O pray!” 

They had reached the tall iron gates opening upon 
that sombre avenue of ancient trees beyond which 
rose the wide front of Loring Chase; now, as they 
paused here. Miss Belinda caught Mr. Shiig’s arm in 
her small, eager hands, gazing up imploringly into his 
face, a look which Mr. Shrig seemed unwilling to meet, 
for he kept his gaze fixed upon the distant gables of 
the great house as he answered: 

“ For sure, mam, for sure . . . ’t would n’t be no¬ 
wise complete vithout you, mam. . . . And I’m ex¬ 
pectin’ to talk wi’ this ghost — to-night — in Sir Nevil 
Loring’s own room ’twixt ’alf arter eleven and mid¬ 
night. ...I’m expecting and likevise I’m ’oping, 
lady, as this ghost is a-going to tell me who done the 
deed.” 

“Yes, yes — of course!” she answered, with a quick 
nod. “ He must speak at last, he will, I know — in his 
own good time . . . To-night ... in Nevil’s room 



320 The Loring Mystery 

. . . I shall be there, sir . . . Good evening, gentle¬ 
men . . . and thank you, dear Mr. Shrig, for your 
kindness to one whose soul is widowed and solitary 
. . . God bless you! ” So saying she turned and sped 
away, swift and light of foot, beneath the sombre trees 
until her slender form was lost amid the leafy dusk. 

Then David, turning to frown upon Mr. Shrig, 
found him staring at an ominous bank of cloud that 
loomed upon the horizon, his lips pursed in their 
soundless whistle. 

“ Storm, pal! ” said he, nodding towards this dis¬ 
tant cloud. “ Thunder and lightning, vind and rain 
afore morning—.an’ plenty on it!” 

“ And she, in her angelic simplicity, thanked you 1 ” 
quoth David, his scowl deepening. “ She prayed God’s 
blessing on you! By Heaven, Jasper Shrig, there are 
times when you ought to feel ashamed of yourself and 
your methods! ” 

Mr. Shrig’s habitual serenity seemed vaguely 
troubled; he glanced from David’s accusing eyes 
towards that distant point where Miss Belinda’s 
slender youthful form had so lately vanished; at last 
he sighed, shook his head, and finally spoke. 

‘‘Pal David ... I did!” 

“Did what.?” demanded David. 

“ Ought! ” answered Mr. Shrig, and turning his 
back forthwith, trudged heavily away. 


CHAPTER XLVI 
Of Happiness and Coming Storm 

The warped and weatherbeaten stile, of which al¬ 
ready some mention hath been made, stood in a leafy 
hollow remote from chance observation, deep in the 
kindly shade of blooming thickets and sheltering trees 
which made a leafy grove where thrushes and blackbirds 
sang gloriously of a morning and piped sweet sadness at 
dewy eve; and here of late David and Anticlea had 
been wont to meet. 

Wherefore this evening David sat upon the stile, 
swinging booted legs a little impatiently and watching 
the path that wound away to lose itself amid rustling 
boskages. 

Behind him the horizon loomed dark and ominous, 
black with a menacing shadow creeping ever nearer, 
but before him the west lay radiant with sunset. 

But the glory faded, shadows began to creep thick 
and fast, and still this winding, solitary path remained 
deserted, the brooding silence unbroken. . . . The 
place became a cheerless solitude and himself a dis¬ 
consolate soul lost in a dreary desolation. . . . David 
sighed despondent . . . But faint and sweet with dis¬ 
tance the clock in Loring church tower began to chime 
the hour, nine silvery strokes — and then David was 
hasting upon joyous feet, for lo! she was there — 
speeding along this winding path through the fragrant 
dusk to meet his embrace, herself as sweet and fra¬ 
grant as the night. 

And now, leaning against the old stile hid in the 
kindly shade, how much they had to say, how much to 


322 The Loring Mystery 

tell, how many questions to ask and be answered, but 

— with never a word or thought for such detestable 
things as Bow Street Officers, Mystery, or Murder — 
no, not one. 

‘‘ How strangely still the world seems to-night, 
David! It almost makes me afraid! ” 

Feeling her shiver, he folded the cloak about her 
shapeliness and drew her closer. 

“ When will you be my wife, Anticlea.? ” 

“Do you want me — so much, David dear?” 

“ More than life without you.” 

“ O, I do love your voice, David, and the way you 
speak! ” 

“ And here’s myself trying hard to alter it.” 

“Then don’t, sir — I forbid! ... I love you as 
you are.” 

“Why, then, my Anticlea, when will you marry 
me ? ” 

“ When your doubts are all passed away, David — 
the doubts — those hateful doubts that still could not 
keep you from loving me . . . But tell me, sir, why is 
the Duchess offended with you?” 

“Is she? ” quoth David, “ I wonder why? ” 

“ To-day she dared to tell me— me, David! — that 
you were a very ordinary young man! And so I 
quarreled with her, of course, and I think she 
thoroughly enjoyed herself — I know I did!” 

“ Enj oyed yourself ... ? ” 

“ Of course, David dear! The Duchess, though 
overbearing and tyrannical and flinty-hearted, most 
unlovable and altogether hateful — as I told her, David 

— is delightful to quarrel with . . . which I did not 
tell her, you may be sure.” 

“ But Anticlea, this — this is most distressing! ” 

“ Dear man! ” she sighed. “ How should you under¬ 
stand? We quarrelled thoroughly and rid ourselves 
of so much pent emotion that it did us both good; by 


Of Happiness 323 

this time the Duchess is beginning to love me, and I’m 
sure I feel the most respectful affection for her.” 

‘‘Amazing!” murmured David. 

“No — quite natural, dear David. She next de¬ 
manded if you had dared make love to me ... I told 
her you had and that I was proud of your daring. 
Then she called you ‘ a fortune-hunting ploughman ’ 
and vowed she would discharge you ... So I told 
her that if she did I should go with you . . . Then she 
called me ‘ a shameless baggage! ’ and I laughed . . . 
At this she mocked at my red hair—^ which made me 
really angry, David, as she knew it would . . . And 
so I told her if she threw away her horrible wig and 
left off raddling her cheeks, she might look almost 
human and less like a cheap Dutch doll . . . And, 
O David dear, she almost flew at me — the sweet old 
wretch — and couldn’t speak for nearly a second . . . 
and when she did — she actually repeated herself! 
Imagine my triumph, David — but you cannot — no 
man could — especially you, my David! . . . The end 
of it all was that she is determined to drag me off to 
London to-morrow—to her lords and marquises. But 
she shan’t, David, she never shall — unless she has me 
drugged, for I can be determined, too! ” 

“And yet, my ’Clea, I would have you go — at 
once-! ” 

“O David!” 

“For just a little while, beloved . . . until this vile 
police business is over and done with . . . these Bow 
Street officers gone and the whole dreadful affair 
ended . . .” 

“But, David—^David dear, this will take a long, 
long time.” 

“Then I will come to you in London — I must, 
Anticlea, for I cannot be without you long, by 
Heaven! ” 

“ O David! ” she whispered, nestling closer in his 



324 The Loring Mystery 

embrace, “ 0, but ’t is wonderful you can love me so! 
I used to dream sometimes of what a great love might 
be . . . but never—O never of such love as ours 
. . . hush! Did you hear a rustling in the bushes 
yonder?” 

“No, dear love . . . And though you leave me to¬ 
morrow, you take my heart with you, Anticlea . . . 
you will leave a poor, forlorn wretch behind, for life 
without you is less than nothing.” 

“ 0, David — David,” said she, in weeping voice, “ I 
wish to God I were better . . . more worthy such 
love ... a gentler creature, David, more womanly 
. . . more tender and lovable . . . and my hair brown 
or gold or black or-” 

“Your red hair is my glory, girl!” he answered, 
kissing its silky tresses. “ And it is you — you just as 
God made you, are the wife I want . . . And to¬ 
morrow, beloved . . . you will go-? ” 

“ Yes, David, if you wish, though ’twill almost break 
my heart. For my love grows and grows, David, until 
it is pain unless you are near . . . and London is 
miles and miles away . , . And you wiU grieve for 
me ? ” 

“ God knows it! ” he answered fervently. “ And yet, 
O my dear . . . my dear, ’t is in my heart to wish 
you safe in London this very night.” 

“Why, David?” 

“To-night they expect to . . . to clear up the 
Loring Mystery-” 

“To-night?” she whispered, and David felt her 
start, felt her soft body grow rigid in his arms. “ Are 
they so sure? ” she questioned in troubled voice. 
“What . . . what have they discovered?” 

“ I don’t know,” he answered, peering into her wide 
eyes, “ Shrig will tell me nothing . . . Beloved, why 
do you tremble so ? ” 

“ To-night! ” she repeated, and clung to him sud- 





Of Happiness 325 

denly, O, David ... I must go! ” And speaking, 
she clung but the tighter. 

“ Where? ” he demanded hoarsely. “ Where? ” 

** Back to the house . . . Ah, no, do not fear for 
me, David . . . your love' goes with me always . . . 
my shield and comfort ever . . .” 

Soft and sweet with distance the clock of Loring 
church began to chime the hour. 

“ Ten o’clock! ” she whispered. “ How quickly this 
hour has flown! . . . Loose me, beloved, I must go 
. . . Good night, my David—O, good night!” 

“ I will go with you-” 

‘‘No, I shall be quicker alone . . . and I love to 
know you are waiting here by our dear old stile to 
watch me out of sight . . .” 

“ But it is so dark, dear heart-” 

“Yes . . . see that awful black cloud . . . Good 
night ... and know, David dear, that I shall love 
you in this life — and beyond! ” 

So saying, she turned and sped away into the gloom; 
and leaning against the old stile David watched her 
flit from his sight, and in his heart a joy unspeakable, 
and in his mind dreams of a future that held a happi¬ 
ness all undreamed till now. Then behind him a bush 
rustled, he heard a sound of swift feet muffled in the 
grass and, wheeling about, came face to face with 
Frenzy. 

“ Maulverer! ” he exclaimed. 




CHAPTER XLVII 

Which Telleth oe Horror and a Great Fear 

Rigid of form, pallid! of face, with eyes that glared 
and hands that clenched and wrung each other, he 
fronted David silently for a moment, his breath labour¬ 
ing strangely; when at last he spoke, the words came 
in a wild rush: 

“So, then, she truly loves you, sir — yes, yes — my 
eyes and ears are witnesses — she is yours by her own 
confession, and yours therefore, not mine, thank God, 
must be the hand to free her from the remorseless, on¬ 
coming shame and horror which nothing may with¬ 
stand, whence is no escape for her—but death!” 

“Death?” repeated David, recoiling before the 
speaker’s awful look. “Are you mad?” 

“ Not yet, sir, no, not yet — though God only knows 
how near it I am — and with what cause! God alone 
knows what days and nights of agony I have endured 
for her sake! . . . How I have watched hourly and 
striven to avert the approach of that awful fate which 
must destroy her . . . utterly . , . horribly — must 
blast her body, her name and memory for ever! . . . 
Are you armed, sir? . . . Nay, take this — I shall not 
need it, I thank God, for now, since you are the man 
she loves, yours must be the hand to set her free . , , 
take this! ” And with a swift gesture Mr. Maulverer 
drew a pistol from his breast and thrust it into David’s 
grasp. 

“ Maulverer,” cried he, glancing from the weapon to 
the other’s ghastly face, “in God’s name . . . what do 
you suggest ? ” 



Of Horror and Fear 327 

Mr. Maulverer glanced swiftly about him and leaned 
to David’s ear. 

‘‘I am followed everywhere, watched, spied upon — 
as perhaps you know — listen! ” he whispered. “ I sug¬ 
gest it is better she . . . this woman we both love — 
this Anticlea who loves you, I say it is better she die 
to-night by the hand of him she loves rather than by the 
hangman! ” 

The word was the softest whisper, but David shrank 
back to the stile and leaned there weakly, while Maul¬ 
verer, peering into his face, continued in the same 
hoarse, passionate whisper: 

‘‘For her there is no escape . . . God help her . . . 
no other way! Shrig knows all, and to-night-” 

“But she . . . she is innocent!” stammered David. 
“ She must be ... I feel it-” 

“Would to God she were!” gasped Maulverer, “I 
would give my life gladly — gladly to make it so . . . 
As it is she must die before it be too late — swiftly, 
cleanly, by the hand of one she loves! Think, man, 
the gallows . . . that white throat! The obscene 
gibbet . . . that tender body! God, the thought is 
madness — horror-” 

“ She is innocent — innocent! ” stammered David. 

“NO!” cried Maulverer wildly, “NO! . . . God, 
man ... I saw! Listen: You too were there that 
night; I recognised you as you knocked me down . . . 
Well, you asked me once why I kept this secret at the 
inquest—cannot you guess noT”.^ — I feared lest you 
had seen . . . what I saw! Why have I been slave to 
the beast Yaxley all these days and nights, feeding 
him, sheltering him? Because he saw . . . what I 
saw! For Anticlea’s sake I have been his servant, 
damn him! . . .” 

“And what — what did you see?” 

“ I saw her that night struggling in Sir Nevil’s arms 
— her long hair all about them-” 






328 The Loring Mystery 

‘‘ And — did not interfere? ” 

“No, God forgive me! I knew ’twould but make 
it worse for her some other time, and then I knew she 
was the stronger. So I crept back . . . out of sight 
and waited. Presently the struggling ceased ... I 
heard her sobbing, and then Sir Nevil’s voice speaking 
very softly. Then I heard her fly from him up the 
stair . . . but still I waited, and then . . . ah, then 
. . . she crept back again ... I heard her foot, the 
rustle of her draperies I Sir Nevil spoke again in bitter 
anger and . . . after some while . . . laughed . . . 
and choked horribly! When at last I ventured into 
the room he was dead, with her dagger in his breast! ” 

“Then you did see her strike the blow?” 

“No, but Yaxley did! . . . And to-night Yaxley 
will be taken . . . and he will speak — though Shrig 
knows already, I fear . . . And she will be . . . 
dragged away to the shame and horror of what must 
be unless you — you whom she loves — set her free by 
the one and only way . . . and follow her—out into 
the Unknown as I would have done gladly, gladly — I 
to whom death with her were better than life without 
her. Sir, she has given you the love she denied to me — 
be worthy of it, guard her, shield her—save her body 
from the sordid brutality of the law’s blind and merci¬ 
less vengeance! . . . Sir, I am done with Loring, we 
shall not meet again, but, by your love for her, I do 
conjure you — do your duty, free her from the shame, 
the ignominy and horror of what must and will be — if 
you hesitate! Help her to escape far beyond the reach 
of our fallible human law and go you beside her as I 
meant to do, I who . . . love her also, and losing her ‘ 
—- lose all! ” 

So saying, with a wild, unearthly look and gesture, , 
Eustace Maulverer turned and vanished into the dark¬ 
ness, leaving David sick with horror and a growing! 
despair. 


Of Horror and Fear 329 

And presently^ out from the rustling dark stole a 
wind to fan hot cheek, to stir the hair upon pulsing 
temples — a stealthy wind that was, and was not, 
which came in fitful puffs growing ever stronger; a 
vague whisper, a murmur' that rose to a sigh, to a 
moan, to a wail; a breath that swelled to a sudden 
rushing tempest. 

Roused by this growing uproar, David glanced 
round about him from wild-tossing trees and swaying 
thickets to a gloomy heaven where crept a vast black 
cloud, an inky pall which, as he gazed, was riven 
asunder by a jagged lightning-flash followed by a 
crashing thunderclap that seemed to stun the very 
wind to silence. And in this quiet came the rain, a 
few great drops to splash upon David’s upturned brow 
— very grateful and cooling. Then up rose the wind 
again, a bellowing fury now, to tear at groaning trees 
until they bowed and cracked, to fill the swirling dark¬ 
ness with flying twigs and leaves. 

And standing amid this howling murk, buffeted by 
this raging wind, David thought only of Anticlea and 
of the unspeakable horrors which menaced her; horrors 
and dangers these which must and should be his also. 
And therefore, bowing his head against the driving 
rain, buttoning his coat against the rushing wind, 
David set forth. 

Dazzled by the blue glare of lightning, deafened by 
pealing thunder, dazed by buffeting wind and lashing 
rain, he struggled on — splashing through swirling 
rainpools, slipping in slimy mud, stumbling over fallen 
branches, he held on at such speed as he might. But 
with every stride the tempest seemed to rage the 
fiercer: above hissing rain and bellowing wind the 
thunder roared near and far to shake the very firma¬ 
ment, with lightning, whose vivid glare showed a wild 
desolation grim and unearthly, blotted out in a sudden 
pitchy darkness wherein he crawled and stumbled with 


330 The Loring Mystery 

feet unsure, with groping hand, and eyes that saw 
not ... on and on he knew not whither until he 
blundered among swaying trees that shrieked to the 
buffets of roaring wind. 

Grimly determined David struggled on imtil at last 
the lightning showed him a familiar wall, a high wall 
pierced by a small wicket, which, as he remembered, 
opened into Loring Park. Thitherwards he stumbled, 
and was close upon this wicket when out from its shad¬ 
ow loomed a dim form, and a hoarse voice bid him stand. 

But what thing human might stay such lover on such 
errand.^ Unhesitating, David leapt, and there amid 
the elemental strife they grappled. The man was 
strong, but so was David and nerved by desperation; 
thus as they strove fast-clenched, David, heedless of 
himself, swung his assailant to the wall, felt the fellow’s 
grip relax and, wrenching himself free, leapt the wicket 
and ran headlong. 

Across undulating turf, beneath mighty trees he 
sped until he was among the denser gloom of hissing 
yews that bordered rain-lashed walks, groped his 
way to wet stone steps, and so at last reached the ter¬ 
race of Loring Chase and leaned there panting and 
distressed, to fetch his breath, to peer up at the great, 
gloomy house and hark to the booming of the wind. 

And now, having reached his destination, it seemed 
the storm was moderating, the thunder rolled farther 
and farther, the hissing downpour had well-nigh ceased, 
and out from ragged cloud peered the disk of a pallid 
moon. 

Groping within damp pocket, David drew forth the 
silver-hilted dagger, crossed the wide terrace of a cer¬ 
tain window and set himself to force the casement by 
means of the stout steel. And after some while, having 
worked the point between each frame, he contrived to 
lift the hasp and the lattice swung open: then David 
clambered through and softly closed it behind him. 


Of Horror and Fear 331 

Outside wind and thunder moaned and rumbled afar, 
and in place of vivid lightning-glare and howling dark¬ 
ness was the pale radiance of a fitful moon. 

Sinking wearily upon the window-seat, David leaned 
back waiting for what was to be, and staring round 
about upon this dark chamber, this room wherein Sir 
Nevil Loring had died so horribly. 

Little by little as the moonlight strengthened David 
began to discern adjacent objects: the bookcase, the 
desk, the elbow-chair — that same chair which once had 
held a ghastly, lolling shape whose sightless eyes and 
parted lips had leered heavenward in such awful 
mockery . . . Suddenly, as he gazed at this dim-seen 
chair, David started and shrank back with breath ar¬ 
rested, for surely . . . yes, beyond all doubt — some¬ 
thing sprawled there still. 

Motionless he gazed with an ever-growing horror 
and a sick dread of he knew not what, a dread so real 
that he must act at once lest it master him . . . 

With hands tight-clenched . . . forcing unwilling 
flesh to obedience, David rose and slowly, step by step, 
began to approach that dreadful chair . . . nearer 
until he could perceive a head low-bowed . . . white 
hair . . . pale hands folded as in prayer . . . the 
folds of a dainty robe. 

David’s breath came in a great sob of relief, and in 
that moment the sleeper stirred, sighed plaintively and 
looked up. 

“Miss Belinda!” he breathed. 

“Why, is it you, Mr. David.?” said she in soft, glad 
voice. “ We are early, I think. And you find me asleep 
and dreaming — a wonderful dream-” 

“ Why . . . why do you sit . . . in that chair.? ” 

“Because I am nearer to Nevil here, where he died. 
Why, you poor boy, how wet you are! You will take 
cold, I fear . . . and you are shivering!” 

“ It ... is nothing, madam.” 



332 The Loring Mystery 

“ See, the storm is quite passed away. Yes, it will 
be a . . . glorious niffht later on, David. May I call 
you David ? ” 

“Why, surely . . 

“Anticlea has told me of your love for each other, 
and I am glad, so very glad, because now she will not 
be lonely when I leave her to-night.” 

“ Leave her . . . to-night ? ” 

“Yes, David. To-night my Nevil comes to claim 
me, to take me away with him at last ... he has 
learned to love me truly at last . . . you see, I am 
his wife, David ... I have kept it secret all these 

years because it was his wish . . . but to-night- 

Why do you stare on me so, David ? ” 

The moon had risen high and clear, and beholding 
her as she spoke, so slender and youthful despite snowy 
hair, seeing how she pillowed tender cheek caressingly 
to the cushions of this dreadful chair, how gently her 
slim hands stroked and patted its worn arms, David 
must needs contrast her gentle purity with the awful 
form that had once lolled there leering bitter mockery 
even in death. 

“ God! ” he whispered. “ How can you ... sit -— 
there.? ” 

“I often do, David. You see, I loved him so ... he 
was my husband and I killed him. David, to save him 
from himself ...” 

“You.?” gasped David, “You . . . .? ” 

“Yes,” she sighed, “it was the only way . . . be- 
oause I loved him! . . . He destroyed my youth, but 
I loved him. He broke my heart, but I loved him still. 
He shamed and humiliated me, yet still I loved him! 
But . . . O, David ... he would have done a thing 
beyond all forgiveness — even mine! He would have 
sinned beyond all redemption, and so I killed him, 
David ... I sent him back to God, who is so infinitely 
merciful because He understands.” 




333 


Of Horror and Fear 

‘‘Was Anticlea . . , with you?” 

“No, David. I was outside upon the stair, the 
door was open and I heard what Nevil said, heard her 
cry out in bitter shame, heard her fly from him, then I 
crept down and found him alone. I came to plead with 
him on my knees and he—kicked me ... O, Nevil! 
. . . But I was beyond his reach and his shoe flew olf 
. . . He was making a will in favour of Thomas 
Yaxley, and I snatched it away, weeping and praying 
the while. Then he told me again the unforgivable 
thing he meant to do . . . laughed at my prayers and 
tears . . . O, poor Nevil! , . . There was a dagger 
on the desk to my hand, so I took it and weeping, 
praying still, I killed him as he laughed . . . killed 
him, David, because I loved him. And he knows now, 
he understands at last . . . my love has not been in 
vain . . . my suffering, my broken heart . . . ah, no 
— to-night he is coming for me — his wife! To-night 
I shall be with him to comfort him, to share with him 
whatsoever God in His mercy shall ordain. And so to¬ 
night I am happy, David, yes, happier, I think, than I 
have ever been.” 

The gentle voice ceased and David saw that her face 
was radiant, her eyes uplifted in an ecstasy. 

The clouds, it seemed, were all passed away, for 
through the window slanted a beam of pale moonlight; 
and David, mute and rigid, stared at this like one in 
a trance until roused by the touch of a gentle hand. 

“ Poor boy, and you are so wet! ” she sighed. “ And 
you have always seemed so lonely, with no one to care 
for you . . . but now there is Anticlea! And you 
love her, David — very dearly?” 

“ Ay, God knows it! ” he answered hoarsely. 

“ And I pray God may bless you both, you and your 
love. . . . Listen! O, David, do you hear? ” she whis¬ 
pered. “ Do you hear him ? He is coming at last . . . 
my Nevil is coming for me! ” 


334 The Loring Mystery 

Wide-eyed stood David scarcely breathing, for upon 
the air was a sound growing slowly louder, nearer — a 
sound that chilled him yet brought the sweat to brow 
and the palms of fast-clenched hands — soft, irregular 
. . . the tread of limping feet; louder, nearer, nearer 
yet, imtil David glared about him, peering into dim 
corners, his eyes wide with horrified expectancy. 

And then a small, cool hand clasped his in firm and 
gentle pressure and in his ear a whisper of joyous, 
glad surprise: 

“Look . . . O, David — look!” 

From dark comer, slowly, silently out from the 
wall swung a length of the opposite bookcase, wider 
and wider until he visioned a black and narrow opening 
and in this opening a vague something that moved . . . 

“Nevil?” With the word she was upon her feet, 
yearning arms outstretched, “ Nevil . . . loved hus¬ 
band . . . O, Nevil!” David watched her slowly ap¬ 
proach this nebulous shape, saw her start and turn to 
fling herself upon him bearing him staggering to the 
wall as came a blinding flash, a stunning report; and 
leaning weakly against the panelling, dazed by the 
suddenness and horror of it all, he was aware that Miss 
Belinda was back in the chair whispering, whispering 
in the dimness, and knew she uttered a prayer of pas¬ 
sionate gratitude repeated over and crver again: 

“ Dear God of Mercy ... I thank Thee — I thank 
Thee! ” 

But, all at once, beyond that black opening in the 
corner rose sounds of desperate stmggling, of blows 
and dull-trampling feet, but n«ver a word or cry. 
Roused by this, David stole thither to peer into a thick 
darkness pierced suddenly by a jet of red flame, and 
leaping aside at the muffled explosion, he crouched to 
the wall staring upon that dread comer whence now 
issued a sound of footsteps, heavy feet that halted 
within the room itself; then forth of that dark corner 


Of Horror and Fear 335 

strode Jasper Shrig bareheaded, his face smeared with 
blood and a still smoking pistol in his fist. 

Up started David to grasp his arm: 

“What was it, Jasper, what was it?” 

“ Death, pal! ’ T was him or me — and I ’ad to! 

Death it is, pal David, and another case sp’iled-” 

“ Who — who was it ? ” 

“The ghost, pal — T. Yaxley, for sure. . . . He’s 
a-layin’ back there vaitin’ for my lads to cart ’im 
avay —— ” 

“Lying where, Jasper?” 

“ In the secret passage as leads from here to his 
cottage ... I forced that ’ere door, pal! ’Oo did 
’e shoot at?” 

“ I don’t know . . . Miss Belinda was nearer-” 

“Mi^s Belindy — ha, vas she here, then?” 

“She is here.” 

“Is she?” quoth Mr. Shrig, smearing blood from 
his face on coat-cuff, “ look be’ind you, pal.” 

Turning hastily David saw the lattice standing wide; 
save for themselves the room was empty. 

“Gone!” he exclaimed. 

“Ah!” nodded Mr. Shrig, staring fixedly at some¬ 
thing between chair and window. “And where d’ye 
sap-pose ? ” 

“ Heaven knows, Jasper.” 

“ Ay, and so do I, pal! She’s off to — stop a bit, 
the house is rose, the folks is all voke up an’ small 
vonder! But this ain’t no place for fe-males; help 
me lock the doors, pal— all on ’em! ” 

So they locked the doors while from overhead came 
a sound of startled voices, a hurry of footsteps, and 
presently a knocking on the door, together with the 
voice of the Duchess a little tremulous yet imperious 
none the less: 

“Who is there? What is the matter?” 

“Only me, mam — Jasper Shrig o’ Bow Street, and 





336 The Loring Mystery 

everything’s quite compus mentws, or — as you relight 
say — blooming and serene, mam.” 

‘‘What was all the shooting.?” 

“ Only me an’ the ghost, mam! Everything’s nice 
and qviet now, mam, and ’ll stay partic’ler qviet ’ence- 
forth. So git back to bed, your Grace, mam, and don’t 
worrit, lady.” 

“Have you caught your murderer.?” 

“Yes, thank’ee mam! Aud now for Miss Belindy, 
pal — an’ spry ’s the vord! ” 

“ Where is she ? ” 

“ From con-cloosions drawed, on her vay to the 
church-” 

“But how — how do you know.?” 

“Lord, pal — vhere’s your ogles.? Look at this! 
An’ this! An’ here again at the vinder! ” 

“Blood!” gasped David. 

“ An’ no error, pal! Ye see, she took vot was meant 
for you-” 

“ God — yes! I remember now, Jasper! She sprang 
upon me. . . . O, Jasper—she saved my life ... !” 

“Werry likely, pal, you was a’ easy mark in the 
moonlight for T. Yaxley’s bullet. . . . Only if you ’re 
a-comin’ — come! ” 

The moon rode high and clear now and, having 
clambered out through the window, they saw the 
broad terrace splashed, here and there, with dark spots 
leading in the one direction. 

“ The church will be locked up at this hour! ” said 
David, shivering in his wet clothes as they hurried on. 

“ She ’ll get in some fashion, you can lay to that.” 

Beaching the sombre building at last, they found the 
massive door ajar, but paused upon the threshold, for 
the place was full of a soft singing wonderfully sweet 
and clear, though broken now and then by painful 
gasps. So they stood motionless a space, until the 
singing was hushed. 


i 




Of Horror,, and Fear 337 

“Pal,” whispered Mr. Shrig, “ O, pal, I never 
knowed the like o’ this! ” 

Then in the darkness of the porch David set his hands 
upon his companion’s shoulders and leaned to his ear: 

“ Jasper,” he whispered, “ you will not take her . . . 
you cannot.” 

“Why, pal, I rayther think she’s beyond the law 
. . . and d’ve wrote down this here Capital Act to 
T. Yaxley, vich — if not eggsackly ack’rate, is near 
enough for the authorities an’ don’t ’arm nobody!” 
So saying, he turned and led the way into the church. 

She was kneeling before the Loring tomb, her head 
bowed against that time-worn stone so often wetted 
by her tears of late, but now moist with a darker, more 
precious stain, while from her failing lips stole a 
whisper: 

“ O God of Mercy . . . Thou knowest I . . . O 
gentle — O kind God ... I thank Thee! . . . Yes, 
Nevil . . . my darling, I . . . am coming ... No 
more grief for me ... no more . . . loneliness for 
you . . . my beloved,! Husband, reach me . . . your 
arms, take me — O Nevil ...” 

Mr. Shrig’s ready arm was about her, a wonderfully 
gentle arm that lowered her until she lay, a smile upon 
her lips, a glory on her face, her white head pillowed 
upon that stone where ran the new-graven legend: 

Sacred to the Memory 

OF 

Sir Nevil Loring 
Aged 52 

Thirteenth Baronet. 

“Angels . . . an’ little children!” whispered Mr. 
Shrig, “ O, pal, you can almost hear the heatin’ of her 
wings! ” 


CHAPTER XLVIII 
In Which all Doubts are Resolved 

It is early morning; a glorious morning so far as sun 
can make it, a sun whose level beams, for the day is very 
young, cast long shadows on dewy grass; a fragrant 
morning redolent of teeming earth, with sweet, herby 
smells and the warm, rich savour of fast-ripening fruit. 
For, be it noted, July and August are spent and we are 
in September. And David, leaning from wide-flung 
lattice, looks out over a country of swaying cornfields 
ripe to harvest, of purple woods whose myriad leaves 
flame in a many-coloured glory of russet and gold, pink 
and scarlet, beyond which rise the gables of Loring 
Chase, that home of his ancestors, where for the past 
eight weeks a regiment of workmen have laboured amain. 
From this, turns David to survey so much as he may of 
himself in the inadequate mirror: his satin stock and 
snowy cravat, right cunningly tied; his perfect-fitting, 
high-collared blue coat and flowered waistcoat, and, the 
small mirror reflecting nothing lower, he glances down 
at snowy buckskins and glossy betasselled Hessians 
which are of themselves the very ne plus ultra. 

And yet David’s brow is furrowed and his eyes are 
a little anxious in their final survey as he takes up his 
modish hat, since to-day, for him, is an occasion, the 
very day of days. 

Downstairs, early though the hour, a goodly break¬ 
fast awaits him, with Tom the landlord, that bullet¬ 
headed worthy, all ready to serve him with an eager 
deference not due to his so elegant attire: 

‘‘’Am, S’ David?” he enquires. “Th’ ’am’s prime, 


All Doubts Resolved 339 

S’ David, but, then, so’s the beef, sir . . , which I 
should, therefore, suggest as you tries a bit o’ both, 
sir.” 

‘‘Both it is, Tom,” answers David, taking his seat. 
“ Pray what o’clock is it ? ” 

“ A quarter arter five. S’ David, which do leave you 
nine hours an’ a bit, the serrymonny bein’ set for two 
o’clock ’sarternoon, sir, d’ye see! ” 

“ So you know all about it, Tom? ” 

“Bless y’r ’eart — the ’ole village knows, sir — ah, 
an’ wishes ye j’y into the bargain.” 

“ And by Heaven, I believe they mean it, Tom.” 

“ Sure as you ’re bom, sir! The pity bein’ as you 
ain’t a-doin’ of it at Loring, sir.” 

“ There were . . . reasons, Tom.” 

Here^ through the open window, together with the 
perfume of flowers from the garden, comes a sound of 
ponderous wheels, the plod of deliberate hoofs and 
j ovial, albeit a peremptory voice: 

“Avast, Polly Feemus — belay. Poll!” Ensues a 
tramp of quick-striding feet, and in at open lattice peers 
the smiling, good-humoured face of Jim Crook the 
Carrier : 

“Mornin’, Sir David!” says he. “Being jest about 
to stand away on my route, I takes the liberty to haul 
my wind and heave alongside to wish ye luck, sir — 
’ealth, ’appiness, long life, good fortune an’ a fair 
wind.” 

“Then God bless you, Jim!” answers David, with 
imperious gesture. “Come in, man, in with you and 
say it across a tankard . . . Tom, a pot of ‘ old ’ 
. . . nay, pots all round! In with you, Jim man!” 
So in strides the Carrier to stand hat in hand until 
David motions him to a chair, what time the ale is 
brought and the toast duly honoured. 

“’Tis pity Mus’ Shrig ain’t along, sir,” sighs the 
landlord; “ I never wets my whistle wi’ a drop of ‘ old ’ 


340 The Loring Mystery 

without thinkin’ o’ Mus’ Shrig . . . ’e were a sharp ’un, 
’e were — gimblets was nothing to ’e!” 

“Ay, ay!” nods Jim. “His weather-eye was a-lift- 
ing—constant! And the way ’e run Tom Yaxley 
aboard-” 

“ Ah! ” quoth the landlord, “ and tackled that theer 
ghost! Lord, it doan’t do to mention ghostesses t’ ol’ 
Joel . . . spit at me, ’e did, las’ toime — ay, ’e did so! ” 

“ I do ’ear, sir,” says the Carrier, “ as the action do 
take place over to Glynde, ’s arternoon.” 

“ At Glynde, yes, Jim.” 

“ Two o’clock! ” nods the landlord. “ In nine hours’ 
toime! ” 

“ Hum! ” murmurs David, “ I am a little early, it 
seems.” 

“ An’ I shall be late, sir! ” said the Carrier, rising. 
“My Polly, though sure, is precious slow — like the 
old Dreadnought ninety-four! I must be goin’, sir.” 

“ Then you shall drive me as far as the cross-roads, 
if you will, Jim,” says David, rising also. 

“With all my ’eart. S’ David, though my waggin 
ain’t for clo’es the likes o’ yourn, sir. But if you’m so 
minded, I’d be proud, sir.” 

“I am so minded,” answers David, clapping on his 
hat. Then, having shaken Tom the landlord’s honest 
hand, forth he strides to climb nimbly aboard the wag¬ 
gon; whereupon Jim clambers after him, shakes the 
reins and commands Polyphemus to “ heave ahead.” 
This sagacious and haughty animal having duly con¬ 
sidered the suggestion, cocked an ear, lifted a leg? 
pondered a moment — put it down again and snorted. 

“ Now then. Poll ...” remonstrates the Carrier; ' 
but at this moment hurrying steps are heard, and Mr. 
Sprowles presents himself in a state of perspiring 
obsequiousness and, having bowed, touches his hat and 
bows again and, removing his hat altogether, stands 
with it clasped to his labouring breast: 



All Doubts Resolved 341 

“ Sir David, sir . . . your honour,” he gasps, I 
’astens to take the liberty on this ’ere ospelatious and 
most momentatious occasion, to ’umbly beg your hon¬ 
our’s leave to wish your honour all ’ail. Sir David, and 
likewise good fortun’ and j’y, your honour, more es¬ 
pecially me being one wi’ a eye for ‘ THE QUALITY ’, 
and an ’eart — sir, as’umbly throbs in its lowly speer, 
a loyal ’eart and-” But at this moment Poly¬ 

phemus, uttering an expressive snort, starts off, and 
Mr. Sprowles is left bowing in the dust of their de¬ 
parture. 

And now as the heavy waggon creaks onward by 
shady, winding ways they talk of many and divers 
things: of their first meeting; of the bounteous crops 
to be harvested; of the weather; of “ Old Boney ”; of 
Loring' and the many changes and improvements David 
has wrought, but never a word of Crime or Criminals, 
for the Loring “ Mystery ” is nine weeks old and fast 
receding into the limbo of forgotten things. 

Reaching the cross-roads, Polyphemus condescends 
to halt, and down springs David forthwith. 

“Good-bye, Jim,” says he, “Loring is my home 
henceforth, and we, being neighbours, must remain 
friends always.” 

“ Ay, ay. Sir David — and heartily ! ” answers the 
Carrier, touching an eyebrow, and presently lumbers 
and creaks upon his accustomed way. 


David is sitting upon the old stile which, by reason 
of its decrepit age, has often propped full many an 
expectant youth ere now, but surely never one quite so 
tremulously eager, or one who gazed upon the narrow, 
winding path with eyes of such expectant yearning as 
our David. 

Birds carolled near and far, but what are they to 
him.? Throstle and merle piped tender sweetness from 



342 The Loring Mystery 

the adjacent grove; but David’s ears were strained for 
a sound far sweeter to him than any song, carol, fluting 
or piping, since birds first chirped — the light, quick 
tread of feet hasting himwards, such sound as his ears 
had hungered for this age-long, weary eight weeks. 

Thrush and blackbird vied with each other in har¬ 
monious rivalry, filling the leafy grove with liquid 
runs and trills; but how should David hear or heed? 
This David who, as time passed, grew impatient, des¬ 
pairing and anxious in as many moments, until at 
last from frilled shirt-bosom he drew a folded paper 
and opening it scanned it through—^for all the world as 
if he did not know its every word by heart! Yes, there 
it was, “ seven o’clock ” sandwiched between a “ be¬ 
loved ” and a “ dear ”... Well, then, something vital 
must have detained her, beyond all question! . . . Ha 
— she was ill! . . . Heaven help him — an accident, 
perhaps! 

David sprang from the stile in sudden agitation . . . 
But soft and sweet with distance stole the chime from 
Loring Church tower — seven mellow strokes. 

A sound of iron upon stone! Hoof-strokes muffled 
in dewy grass — and She was before him, mounted upon 
a horse whose labouring flanks proclaimed speedy travel 
. . . She was riding towards him, her shapely form 
swaying gracefully to her steed’s every movement . . . 
she was looking down at him beneath the shadow of her 
hat — and in her eyes a glory. 

“David!” 

As she breathed his name he was beside her, his arms 
reached up to lift her down and, sighing happily, she 
swayed to his eager clasp; now, having her in his arms, 
upon his heart between heaven and earth, he must fold 
her so awhile to kiss her, and she, being the Anticlea she 
was, kissed him again. 

“ Nine weeks, David! ” she murmured. “ Nine weary 
weeks! ” 




All Doubts Resolved 343 

“ But to-day,” he whispered, “ O, my Anticlea . . . 
to-day-” 

‘‘To-day,” she sighed, “you wear your hair shorter 
than it was! ” 

“And you,” he answered, “are even more beautiful 
than I dreamed.” 

“Do you think so, David — do you truly think so?” 
she questioned, her arms tightening a little, “and I 
have not slept all night ... I could not . . . And 
this morning I dressed by a guttering candle . . 

Now came they to lean beside the ancient stile, and 
having so very much to say, said nothing — content to 
gaze into each other’s eyes, happy in each other’s 
nearness. 

“Our dear old stile!” said she at last, “I had to 
steal away ... to meet you here, David, on this day 
of all days! Often we shall come here in the future, my 
David, I hope . . . but to-day, 0, David, to-day we 
leave the old life behind — for ever.” 

“Thank Heaven!” he exclaimed, “For . . . O, 
Anticlea, in that old life I . . . suspected you—-” 

“ And, indeed — indeed I had given you enough cause, 
David . . . And then ... at first I doubted you 
also . . . But when I discovered the truth—when I 
knew you were guiltless . . . O, then, my dear — my 
dear — I was so happy, so wonderfully happy that 
nothing else mattered in all the world . . . no, not 
I even your suspicions of me, because you loved me — in 
spite of all, David! . . . And I dared not speak — 
even to you, for . . . her dear sake ...” 

I “Yes,” said David, “Jasper Shrig called her an 
I angel, and I think he was right.” 

[ “ I know he was, David! ” 

“So to-day, my Anticlea, begins a new life for us, 
and I pray a happier, better, nobler life than I have 
ever known . . . God make me worthy! ” 

“ And me also, David.” 






344 The Loring Mystery 

‘‘ Though, indeed, Anticlea, you must needs be a 
‘ Loring ’ after all! ” 

“What matter so long as I am David Loring’s 
wife? ” she said in her tenderest voice. “ And O, David, 
I will try to be all you would have me . . . yes, in spite 
of my red hair ! ” 

The horse cropped contentedly at the lush grass be¬ 
side the path, the blackbird, forgetting his autumnal 
sadness awhile, piped a bubbling trill of sheer gladness, 
the sun sent an inquisitive beam to peep through the 
rustling leaves; for surely no lovers who ever sighed 
and kissed by this ancient stile had ever done so with 
more eager yet reverent happiness. 

From distant tower stole a silvery chime proclaiming 
the day eight hours old. 

“I must go, beloved,” sighed Anticlea at last, “I 
must leave you . . . but only until two o’clock! ” 

“ Six weary hours ! ” he mourned. 

“ Only six! ” she murmured. “ Only six, David, and 
I shall be yours until the end of life — and beyond, dear 
love, so long as I am I.” 


THE END 



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